


Between You and the World

by kirk_spock_in_the_impala (ryokoyuy)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Hurt!Geralt, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sensory Overload, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Senses, Witcher potions, as a treat, blending book and tv canon, geralt can have a little tenderness, jaskier will provide, mentions of prejudice and bigotry, they get that vacation by the coast, this is a mix, witcher potion toxicity, with some game canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryokoyuy/pseuds/kirk_spock_in_the_impala
Summary: Five times Jaskier helps Geralt through sensory overload, plus one time he didn't have to (they get that vacation on the coast).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 586
Kudos: 2568
Collections: Best Geralt, Just.... So cute..., Math, Witcher





	1. Smell - Autumn 1250

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a story in six parts, one for each sense plus an (exceedingly soft) epilogue. 
> 
> For timeline, given that Jaskier is born in 1229 and is roughly 20 in Posada, this story begins after they've been travelling together about a year. There will be time skips.
> 
> CW: Each chapter will have a content warning. Sensory overload applies to all, and descriptions are largely based off my own experiences. 
> 
> For this one: mentions of self-harm, Geralt's headspace.

Between You and the World

Chapter 1: SMELL

_Autumn, Year 1250_

The smell of fish pervaded the air. In this little collection of houses by the coast, too small to even rightfully be called a village, people scraped a living out of the sea and the coast. There were no fishmongers and no market, the people here were too few for those contrivances. Instead, the handful of weather-worn people who called this place home, all well into their fifth decade at least, worked together to haul in fish from the nets, to gut them on the shore, and to dry, smoke, or salt the catch for the long winter ahead.

It was subsistence living practiced in peaceful cooperation with neighbor and nature, an archetype of living off the land. Jaskier waxed poetic as they walked slowly through the collective, smiling and greeting all as he took in the wholesome sight, humming an upbeat tune under his breath. Clearly, a new ballad was already in the works, one, Geralt hoped, that would be both more accurate and less bawdy than “The Fishmonger’s Daughter”. 

Geralt respected the hard work evidenced by small settlements like this. He knew how difficult it was to live off the land and how few people did that work honestly. He also appreciated the neutral welcome. With the curses and stones that had followed him throughout the last few villages on the coast, it was a welcome reprieve. 

But, all the reprieve and respect in the world couldn’t change the smell. Fish drying in the brisk, salt air. Fish roasting over open fire pits, fat spitting off the burning peat below. Fish guts marinating in the slop buckets left out in full sun. Fish stew bubbling away in large stock pots, sending clouds of fish-scented steam over the narrow path through the village. 

The smell was so strong Geralt could taste it, could feel it permeating his bones and coating his throat. He fought the urge to gag, to cover his mouth and nose against the powerful stench. Nothing was rotten – except maybe the fish guts – but the smell was all around them like a miasma, overpowering even the sharp, clean smell of the sea. 

Geralt clenched his teeth and tightened his fists around Roach’s reins, willing himself not to give into the urge to bury his face in Roach’s neck to escape the stench.

Jaskier, other than a quick wrinkle of his nose when they passed the first rack of freshly filleted fish left out to dry, seemed unaffected by the ambient odor. Judging by his relaxed expression, the smell was noticeable but not overly so, at least not to average human senses. 

Unless Jaskier was also affected, Geralt had to bear it as if he were equally unaffected. The people here had yet to spit or curse at him, and Geralt wasn’t going to give them reason to change their minds by drawing attention to his freakishly strong sense of smell, more akin to that of a wolf than a man.

Though the settlement was sparsely populated, it spread out over close to a mile of coast and the wind blew at their backs as Geralt, Jaskier, and Roach proceeded slowly on their way north up the coast. Not wanting to waste Roach’s legs or Jaskier’s fine boots without cause, Geralt kept the pace slow as they passed through the village, Jaskier’s humming changing to strumming as he pulled out his lute to start roughly sketching out the structure of his new ballad. 

As they slowly walked along the narrow coastal road, Geralt’s fingers tightened until his nails cut into his palm, his teeth grinding as he fought to keep his expression neutral and resist the urge to bury his nose in something, anything, to dampen the smell. The stench of fish surrounded him, battering at his senses.

At the far end of the village, the smell only increased as they approached the large smokers, plumes of grey smoke pouring out from the top of each, almost shimmering from the high concentration of fish oil.

The cloying, greasy smell made the already difficult strain on Geralt’s sensory control completely intolerable. Geralt choked down the urge to retch, tightening his fists until the bones creaked, focusing on the stinging pain in his palms, the cramping in his jaw, anything to distract himself. It didn’t help, those small hurts rendered irrelevant in the face of such an overload on his senses. Geralt’s perception narrowed, nausea rising. The sudden drastic increase in his tension alarmed Roach and she danced under him, whites showing in her eyes as she looked for the danger causing Geralt’s extreme distress. Geralt couldn’t even bring himself to calm her, or to relax his stranglehold on her reins. Instinct and training kicked in, his body swinging down from Roach’s back without his conscious input. Geralt froze at Roach’s side, completely overcome.

Jaskier abruptly stopped strumming. “Geralt?” He asked, concerned at the sudden dismount, walking quickly to close the short distance between them. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. The smell was everywhere, he couldn’t escape it, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His eyes were fixed on Roach’s saddle, the knuckles on his left hand white with tension around the reins, his right clenched at his side, arm spasming as he fought the urge to cover his nose. His breathing was rough and quick, pulling air in through his mouth and forcing it out through his nose in a futile effort to clear the smell.

Jaskier placed a hand gently on Geralt’s right shoulder, alarmed by his silence and obvious distress. Geralt spun to face him, startled out of his fugue by the sudden contact. Geralt’s eyes were wide and unable to focus, wild tension cutting sharp furrows across his strong features. 

“Easy,” Jaskier soothed, keeping a gentle contact on Geralt’s arm. “What’s wrong? Tell me so I can help.” He kept his voice calm, but it was laced with command.

Geralt focused on Jaskier’s voice, meeting his gaze but unable to answer, the words lost to the overwhelming sensory input. Without words, he stepped into Jaskier’s space, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing deeply of the familiar scent of rosin and honey. Brought down to his base reactions, Geralt’s body knew what his mind had yet to accept after their year of travelling together: Jaskier was safe. Jaskier wouldn’t spit or curse at him for this brief moment of weakness. Jaskier wouldn’t hurt him. 

Jaskier’s arms came up around him, stroking his back in long, slow, soothing strokes, feeling the tension strumming through Geralt’s body, the hot breath panting against his neck. 

As the tension in Geralt’s body slightly lessened and his breathing eased, Jaskier drew Geralt in closer, bringing one hand up to stroke through his hair. Gently, keeping his tone carefully light, he asked, “Geralt, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

Geralt stiffened and pulled back, ashamed as clarity returned. But when he pulled away from Jaskier, the smell of fish flooded his senses again and he whined in pain before he could stop himself, the overwhelming odor that much worse for the brief respite. Jaskier’s hand tightened on the back of his head, drawing Geralt’s face back to the crook of his neck, fingers scratching soothingly on his scalp.

“Hey, now, I didn’t say anything about moving.” Jaskier admonished, keeping a steady pressure on the back of Geralt’s head. “I can see you’re hurting, but I can’t help you unless I know why.”

Geralt heaved a shaky sigh, pressing his face into Jaskier’s neck and breathing in the familiar scent. With the lessening of tension, with Jaskier shielding him from the smell, his words returned. “It’s the smell.” Geralt said, words shorted by embarrassment. “It’s too strong.”

Jaskier heard the shame tinging Geralt’s words. Knowing his dear Witcher hated to admit to anything he perceived, correctly or not, as weakness, he knew the smell must have been truly intolerable to garner such an extreme reaction. He also knew he would need to tread carefully to avoid Geralt completely closing off again, amazed he had been allowed to help at all. 

“It is incredibly strong.” Jaskier agreed. “I’ve never seen fish in such quantity before. If it smells so strongly to me, I can’t imagine what havoc it’s wreaking on your perceptive nose! I have just the thing too. It absolutely saves me when I have to travel to Oxenfurt in the summer, the smell of the nightsoil baking in the sun in indescribable!”

As he spoke, Jaskier reached into the bag slung over his shoulder, keeping one hand firmly on Geralt’s head, holding him in place. He pulled out a large, linen handkerchief and small bottle of chamomile oil. With his teeth, he popped the cap off the oil and, one handed, pressed the handkerchief to the top of the bottle, tipping it over to deposit a small amount of oil in the center of the cloth. Carefully righting the bottle, Jaskier pushed the stopper back in with his teeth, tucking the bottle away before bringing the handkerchief up near Geralt’s face. 

“Geralt, hold your breath for a minute, please. This will help, I promise.” Jaskier said gently, but firmly.

Geralt drew in a breath and held it as Jaskier stepped back just enough to affix the large handkerchief around Geralt’s nose and mouth, the small drop of chamomile oil directly under his nose. Tying it firmly around Geralt’s head, Jaskier stepped back further to inspect his work.

Geralt’s eyes were firmly shut, tension carving lines around his eyes and across his forehead. He still held his breath.

“Give it a try now.” Jaskier instructed. Geralt took a cautious breath, smelling only chamomile oil and, faintly, Jaskier’s natural rosin and honey scent. He took a deeper breath. The smell of fish was perceptible, but only barely, overpowered by the other, closer, far more pleasant smells on the handkerchief. Tension bled from Geralt’s face and shoulders as he found he could breathe easily again.

Jaskier smiled, seeing the relief on Geralt’s face. “Better?”

“Much.” Geralt said. “Thank you.” He reached up to touch the handkerchief. “How did you come up with this?” He asked as he pulled Roach’s reins over her head and started to walk up the path again.

Jaskier huffed a laugh, following at Geralt’s side. “Necessity, my dear Witcher. Oxenfurt was the first city I ever resided in and the smell during the winter was bad enough, what with the nightsoil carts and the manure in the streets. But when summer came and all that baked in the sun? I couldn’t tolerate it. Perhaps the noses of my classmates were simply burned into senselessness by years of exposure or perhaps I’m simply more sensitive to the smell of waste, but I couldn’t walk in the streets in the summer unaided. I tried a handkerchief in front of my nose, which helped, and one of my instructors was kind enough to share the secret of chamomile oil with me. After that, I could walk around without feeling faint! It was a relief.” Jaskier smiled at the memory of his classmates walking around with handkerchiefs tied about their faces. “I even started a trend!”

“Hm.” Geralt said, “Clever.”

“Oh? Was that a compliment I heard?” Jaskier teased, nudging Geralt with his elbow.

Geralt raised an eyebrow, glancing at Jaskier sideways before returning his gaze to the path ahead. They walked in silence for a time, putting distance between them and the fishing village. As the miles passed beneath their feet and the wind shifted, the smell of fish dissipated completely, taken over by clean, salt air and the rich scent of peat moss. Geralt breathed a sigh of relief, the last of the tension leaving him. He reached up and untied the handkerchief, folding it carefully before handing it back to Jaskier.

“All better?” Jaskier asked, deliberately casual, tucking the handkerchief back into his bag.

“Hmm.” Geralt nodded, leading Roach off the path to a suitable clearing for their campsite. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, and it was best to be settled before dark. 

Jaskier helped Geralt set up camp, humming his new ballad ideas as he went through the familiar motions. Once camp was set up, Jaskier picked up the water bucket and Roach’s reins, intending to head out to the stream he could hear nearby. He usually gathered the water for the camp, and offered some to Roach, while Geralt explored the surrounding woods for forage or game, or, these past days, went fishing in the productive coastal waters.

Geralt stood by the packs, hand hovering over the fishing rod before picking up the crossbow and slinging the quiver over his shoulder, heading off into the woods. Jaskier watched him go, unsurprised at the choice, before heading off to complete his task.

* * *

Later, as dusk headed toward night, Geralt slowly turned the rabbit he’d caught for their dinner over the fire as Jaskier brewed some of their herb stash into a fortifying tea, tucking the metal pot into the embers to heat.

With his eyes fixed on his task, Geralt said quietly, shoulders curling in, “forgive me for earlier, I should have been able to control myself.”

Jaskier looked up at him, having expected embarrassment to follow the relief given Geralt’s proclivity to completely disregard his own needs, and said firmly, “there’s nothing to forgive.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched and his hands flexed around the stick on which he held the rabbit over the flames. Jaskier couldn’t tell if the color in his face was from the heat of the fire, or from shame, but he would have bet on the latter.

“It was a shameful display. I should be able to handle the smell of fish without falling apart.” 

Jaskier stood and came around the fire to kneel next to Geralt, forcing Geralt to meet his eyes. “Now, none of that.” He said, “It was nothing so simple as the smell of fish, it was far more intense than that. I know how sensitive your sense of smell is and I’m amazed you tolerated it for as long as you did.” 

Seeing Geralt’s mulish expression, he continued, “if anything, I have to beg _your_ forgiveness for not noticing sooner. I noticed the smell, sure enough, but I didn’t think about how it would affect you and thereby withheld from you sorely needed aide.”

Geralt shook his head sharply, looking down. “No, you have no obligation to care for me and so there’s nothing to forgive. I should have controlled myself better.”

Jaskier shifted to sit directly next to Geralt, pressing into his side, curling his arm around Geralt’s and tracing a light pattern on Geralt’s forearm. He knew he wasn’t going to overcome the enormous well of self-flagellation Geralt carried in a single night, but he would do his best to chip away at it. 

After a moment, he gently tugged on Geralt’s arm, prompting him to turn back toward Jaskier.

“Would you blame me for shivering in winter? For sweating in summer?” 

“What?” Geralt said, brows furrowing. “No, of course not.”

“Of course not.” Jaskier agreed. “Because those are normal, physical reactions to external stimuli. I can’t stop sweating or stop shivering by sheer force of will.” 

Geralt frowned, seeing the analogy. Jaskier continued before he could voice his disagreement.

“No amount of will or training can completely overcome the body’s reactions.” Jaskier said, firmly. “Your senses are enhanced well beyond what most men could fathom, let alone tolerate, and you manage every day without fuss. Your fortitude is astounding, but everyone has limits. Today was an extraordinary situation and there is no shame in accepting help when you need it.”

Geralt pressed his lips into a thin line, hearing the logic but unable to accept the conclusion. “Regardless,” he said, voicing his true shame, “I shouldn’t have forced you into that position.”

Jaskier’s heart broke for his friend. They had never discussed it in so many words, but he could tell by Geralt’s expectations and reactions regarding human interaction how poorly, how neglectfully, he’d been treated in the past. Jaskier hoped he had known kindness in his life before they met in Posada but did not believe it likely.

Jaskier reached out a hand and gently turned Geralt’s head to face him, thumb rubbing gently on his stubbled cheek. Geralt finally lifted his eyes to meet Jaskier’s. 

“You didn’t force me into anything.” Jaskier said, his tone uncompromising. “You are my dearest friend and I will not stand by and see you harmed. Just as you would not leave me to die from a monster’s attack, I would not leave you to suffer, whatever the cause, if it is within my power to alleviate your suffering even a little.”

Geralt’s expression turned contemplative, considering Jaskier’s words in light of everything he’d learned to the contrary in his long life. He did not pull away from Jaskier’s touch. 

Jaskier smiled, seeing Geralt softening his stance. He chose his next words carefully. “I know you’ve been taught you must be completely self-sufficient, but at least indulge me enough to let me help you in these small ways.” Jaskier knew that phrasing the ask as a way Geralt could help Jaskier would be much more effective than anything implying Geralt should take assistance for his own sake. 

Geralt turned Jaskier’s words over in his head. He didn’t need, didn’t deserve, the sort of soft care Jaskier was talking about, but, if it would help his friend feel more at ease, maybe, just _maybe_ , it would be all right to accept a little of what Jaskier was offering.

Geralt turned his face into Jaskier’s palm, closing his eyes in acceptance of Jaskier’s words. Jaskier smiled, heart warm in his chest at the display of trust. He leaned forward and gently, fleetingly, touched his forehead to Geralt’s.

Geralt opened his eyes as Jaskier pulled back, searching Jaskier’s expression for any signs of hesitation or reluctance. Or worse, pity. Finding only calm contentment and affection in Jaskier’s gaze, Geralt gave him a hint of a smile, pleased he had eased his friend’s heart and feeling an unfamiliar sense of calm and safety come over him. 

Geralt had never had a friend to care for him, and he was certain he would never be worthy of the kind of care Jaskier talked about, but if Jaskier truly wanted to care for Geralt, then Geralt would not deny him. He would not insult his only friend by refusing his generous offer. He would never ask, could never ask for anything not freely given, but perhaps this little indulgence, this openly offered affection, was safe to accept. 

Geralt turned back to the fire, pulling the rabbit off the fire. Jaskier leaned against his shoulder as Geralt cut the rabbit from the skewer and roughly chopped the meat into quarters, handing Jaskier his half on a clean piece of bark. Jaskier placed the rabbit on his lap and reached over to pull the metal pot from the embers, sleeve pulled over his hand to protect it from the heat, tipping the tea into the two earthenware cups he’d set out earlier. He handed Geralt his tea and leaned back into Geralt’s side to eat his dinner, humming quietly.

Geralt took a deep breath, smelling freshly cooked rabbit, herbal tea, the sea, and Jaskier’s rosin and honey. He relaxed into the firm pressure of Jaskier at his side, felt the warmth of the fire on his face and the fresh meal in his belly. 

Perhaps, this was what the bards meant when they sang of peace.


	2. Sound: Summer, Year 1252

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Geralt's headspace, mentions of blood, prejudice and xenophobia.

II. SOUND – Summer, Year 1252

It was mid-summer and Geralt and Jaskier were winding their way slowly northward through Kaedwen, keeping close to the Kestrel Mountains. The oppressive heat was eased by the cool breezes meandering down off the snowy peaks high above them. The warm, long days lent an air of relaxation to their trek and Geralt settled into a languid rhythm, long legs easily covering the trail as he breathed deeply of the warm, pleasantly scented air and tilted his face up to catch the warm rays of the noon sun high above.

As they walked along narrow trails through meadows buzzing with insects and full of the bounty of summer flowers, of which Roach frequently availed herself, Jaskier trailed several paces behind, focusing intently on his lute as he practiced, perfected, and practiced again his newest set of songs.

They were headed to the Kaedwen Regional Bardic Competition, a qualifying event for the Continental Finals that winter in Novigrad. When Geralt had gone to the Alderman to turn in his last contract, Jaskier had caught sight of the notice posted for the Regional Competition on the village board. 

With only five leagues and three days between their current location and the Regional Competition, and no pending contract to give them their next heading, Geralt had agreed to travel with Jaskier to the competition, held in a small town in Northern Kaedwen at the base of the Kestrel Mountains. That close to dragon territory, Geralt would likely find a profitable contract on some type of draconid, Jaskier had argued. Geralt could see how much the competition meant to Jaskier and could not bring himself to refuse.

So, they set off, Jaskier taking the long hours spent walking as ample opportunity to fine-tune and practice the new ballads he’d written based on their adventures together that past Spring. Apparently, old material “simply wouldn’t do, Geralt!” Or so Jaskier had insisted. Geralt was unsure of the difference, given they’d yet to travel this far North, so it was unlikely anyone here had heard Jaskier’s ballads, and certainty not yet from the source, but he held his tongue, unwilling to risk dimming his dearest (his only) friend’s enthusiasm. If it made them some extra coin or put him in range of a profitable contract, all the better.

At their current rate, they would arrive at the Competition by late afternoon. As Jaskier explained it, preliminaries would be held the following morning, with each bard given a private meeting with the Judges. The winners of the preliminary phase would then hold a public competition in the evening at the local inn, with each bard running through a set of three songs on which they would be judged. The top three bards would receive a certificate granting them entrance to the Continental Finals, along with a monetary prize.

And so, they walked, Geralt and Roach leading the way through the sun-drenched meadows accompanied by Jaskier’s lilting melodies. Geralt had thought all his life that he preferred silence, but this, perhaps, might be even better.

________________________________________

By that evening, Jaskier and Geralt were settled into the last available room at the local inn and Roach was comfortably bedded down in a large stall with a thick blanket of straw and fresh-smelling oats. 

On the way in to town, Geralt had taken a contract from the village’s notice board for a wyvern that had recently taken a liking for mutton. As this village relied largely on sheep farming for their trade and subsistence, the wyvern needed to be eliminated.

As Geralt buckled on his armor in preparation to meet the Alderman, having removed it in the day’s heat, Jaskier was annotating his sheet music for the competition ahead, picking out a few notes on his lute here and there as he went along.

Geralt strapped his swords across his back and said, “I’m going to meet the Alderman.”

“Wait!” Jaskier jumped up, sheets of parchment fluttering to the floor. “I’m coming with you.”

Geralt held up a hand. “No need, it’s too late to start the hunt now. I just need to speak to him about the details. At most, I’ll perhaps scout the location the wyvern has been seen stealing sheep.”

Jaskier moved to disagree, but Geralt insisted. “Stay. Finish your preparations.”

Jaskier moved as if to follow, then stepped back with a huff. “All right. But if you change your plan, promise you’ll come back and tell me. If you get hurt, I can’t find you unless I know where you are.”

Geralt tilted his head and stared at Jaskier, confused. “Why would you need to come find me?”

“Because, dear one, if you get hurt and can’t easily make it back, I don’t want you stuck in the woods for hours bleeding out!”

Geralt shrugged. “I’d make it back once I healed enough.” 

Jaskier threw up his hands. “Not the point! I don’t want you to suffer needlessly.”

Geralt couldn’t understand the cause of Jaskier’s sudden upset. He’d always taken care of himself, patched himself up after hunts. Sure, it was nice when Jaskier was there to help with the hard to reach spots, but he would survive without assistance. He always had, and he would again when Jaskier decided he’d had enough of travelling with a witcher.

Jaskier expression faded from exasperation into consternation? Sadness? Geralt wasn’t sure, it was an odd sort of expression. Jaskier shook his head and gently, sadly, smiled at Geralt. “Go on, talk to the Alderman. We’ll talk about your appalling lack of self-care later.” He sat back on the bed and took up his notes.

Geralt didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, and walked out the door.

_____________________________________________

The following afternoon, Geralt hauled himself back into the inn after a successful hunt. Contrary to the Alderman’s description, it was not a solitary juvenile wyvern, but a mated pair with a clutch of eggs. They'd given Geralt a good chase, covering close to a league over several hours, and a hairy fight once Geralt had finally caught up, but he was able to subdue both in the end. He kicked the eggs over the edge of the cliffside nest to ensure they had no chance of viability, removed the two heads as trophies, and started the trek back to the village, dripping blood, a mix of his own and the wyverns’, along behind him. 

Given that horse was definitely on a wyvern’s menu, Geralt had left Roach safely back at the inn’s stables, a decision he was equally glad about and regretting as the large heads pulled on his already sore and tired shoulders. 

It was fortunate he’d insisted Jaskier stay behind. The hunt had taken much longer than planned and Jaskier would have missed his morning preliminary slot with the judges had he accompanied Geralt as usual, something Geralt had been unwilling to risk. He had given Jaskier a detailed description of where he was heading, at Jaskier’s insistence, and they planned to meet up that afternoon at the inn so Jaskier could be sure of Geralt’s continued survival.

As Geralt stalked through the throng of people awaiting the results of the morning’s preliminary competition, they parted easily around him, many turning to spit and curse at him as he passed. Geralt was used to such a reaction and tuned it out. Just because he took care of their monsters didn’t mean he was different enough from his quarry that normal people wanted to associate with him without cause.

He reached the Alderman, pushing open the door with his foot before dropping the two, bloody heads on the waiting burlap sack. The Alderman started at the sight of him, coated in entrails and blood, dark shadows under his wild eyes.

Geralt sharply indicated the two heads. “Wasn’t a juvenile, but a mated pair. Think we need to renegotiate payment.”

The Alderman frowned, color rising in his cheeks. “Now, see here, you took the contract based on the information I gave you, information you knew was not that given by an expert. It’s your risk that the situation might be different than you expect.”

Geralt’s expression turned murderous. “Alderman, you contracted me for a single wyvern, not a pair. Would you rather I had left the second one alone?”

“How dare you!” The Alderman spat, “you’d leave innocent people to suffer for your greed? You truly are no better than the monsters!”

Geralt took a measured breath in through his nose, attempting to control his anger. This pushback was not an uncommon occurrence, and it would do him no good to snap. “I wouldn’t leave it and I didn’t. The remaining wyvern would have rampaged over the death of his mate, and I would not prompt a slaughter. I’m simply asking that you compensate me for the additional kill.” Despite his best efforts, Geralt’s voice grew louder as he went on, drawing attention from the crowd outside.

“What’s this now?” A large man, a farmer by the look of him, red faced and sweating, stepped across the threshold and into Geralt’s space. “You threatening our Alderman here, freak?”

“No,” Geralt ground out, well aware of how quickly this could turn into him getting run out of town without any pay, or worse, by a stoning. “I’m explaining to him that the contract price was based on one wyvern, but there were two. A payment adjustment is therefore required.” His tone was carefully measured.

The large man stepped back to stand next to the Alderman, facing the curious onlookers outside. His lip curled, contempt dripping off his words, “I think you’d best take what was agreed and move on, Witcher.” The way he spat out the title made his true feelings clear. This was a man who, like many, saw little difference between a witcher and a monster.

Geralt scanned the crowd outside, seeing largely aggressive faces looking back, itching for a bloodletting and sighed heavily, the fight draining out of him. What was one more unfair payment? He couldn’t risk getting run out of the village and ruining Jaskier’s chances in the competition.

“Fine. Give me the coin and I’ll go.”

The Alderman flung the bag at Geralt’s chest. Geralt caught it before it could hit him, tucked it into the pocket of his pants, and left, the crowd at the door parting for him, but just barely. He felt their stares on his back until he turned the corner toward the inn, more than ready to scrub himself down. He would need to be careful until they could leave again, a crowd like that was only too happy to turn into a mob.

____________________________________________

As Geralt was brushing Roach, murmuring the details of the morning’s hunt to her as he worked the soft bristles over her gleaming coat, Jaskier burst into the stable. 

“Geralt! I got into the final!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming.

“Hmm.” Geralt gave him a small smile, looking up at him over Roach’s withers. “Well done.”

Jaskier bounded into the stall to Geralt’s side, passing a juicy red apple to Roach and scratching her favorite spot on her forehead. 

“The final competition is this evening at the inn! There are six bards in the final, and I go third in line. I’m to choose a set of three songs, one ballad, one jig, and one of my choice.” Jaskier smiled at Geralt, hands waving in his excitement. “I’m going to be able to play all the new ones I’ve been working on! For my largest crowd yet!”

“Hmm.” Geralt smiled as he listened, eyes crinkling as his hands continued to brush down Roach.

“You’ll come, won’t you?” Jaskier said, a hint of nerves dampening his excitement.

Geralt caught his eye briefly before returning his attention to Roach. “Of course.”

Jaskier’s smile rivaled the sun and he grasped Geralt’s shoulder in a firm hand, gripping once before releasing him, sliding his hand down Geralt’s arm. Geralt jumped at the contact, but relaxed immediately, warmth spreading from the spot Jaskier touched.

“So,” Jaskier said, leaning back against the stall door, “how was the hunt? I see you survived.”

“Fine. They’re dead.”

“Descriptive as usual.” Jaskier rolled his eyes before straightening. “Wait, ‘they’re’ dead? I thought you said it was one juvenile?” Jaskier asked.

“That’s what the contract said, but it was a mated pair.” Geralt explained, eyes firmly training on Roach.

Jaskier’s tone sharpened with concern as he pushed away from the stall door. “A mated pair? Geralt, are you hurt? That can’t have been an easy fight.”

“Just a few bumps and scratches, nothing serious.” Geralt reassured him, mostly honestly. The deeper contusions and cuts would heal in time, none serious enough to warrant a healer. Geralt knew if he mentioned the injuries, Jaskier would insist on a full treatment, and Geralt would never forgive himself if he distracted Jaskier from his successful completion of the competition. 

Jaskier frowned, staring Geralt down looking for any trace of falsehood. Satisfied, he relaxed again. “All right, but I hope you were appropriately paid for the extra trouble.”

Geralt winced, glad his expression was mostly hidden by Roach. “I collected my pay from the Alderman before returning.” It wasn’t a lie. He wouldn’t lie, not to Jaskier, but neither would he rile him up over nothing before his performance. It was expected that people wouldn’t pay him for unexpected additions to the contract. He was used to it. He couldn’t even keep his temper this time when his request for a pay adjustment was refused, so he deserved to be docked for his lack of control. 

Jaskier sensed there was more to the story, but knew it wasn’t the time to push. Geralt might be persuaded to tell him when they were comfortable and alone, but not here in a public stable with the crowd outside. “All right, good.”

Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and Jaskier knew he’d made the right decision to leave it for now. He continued, “I asked the innkeep to reserve the corner table by the stairs for us this evening. I know you won’t want to be in the middle of things, but you should be able to see and hear everything from there.”

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, frowning at the thought of Jaskier taking time away from his competition for something so insignificant as Geralt’s comfort. “You didn’t need to do that. I would have managed to find a place to watch.”

Jaskier smiled softly at him. “I know, but I wanted to be sure you were as comfortable as possible. I know you don’t enjoy crowded spaces.”

Geralt was surprised Jaskier had noticed. They didn’t often visit large gatherings, and Geralt preferred to avoid cities. There was little chance in their travels for the issue to come up. Regardless, the consideration made something lighten in his chest, something he’d rarely felt before. It felt like gratitude, like affection. Like something of which he never believed, would never believe, he could be worthy. But he wouldn’t upset his friend by refusing the considerate gesture. “Thank you.” He said quietly. 

Jaskier gave him a jaunty salute before turning to leave. “The competition starts at last light, but your table will be ready for you starting at dinnertime. I am told I must eat with the other finalists to avoid any chance of impropriety, so I will see you at the competition.” Jaskier flashed one more, bright smile over his shoulder before heading back out to rejoin the other competitors.

Geralt smiled down at Roach, the warmth of Jaskier’s presence, of his unlikely, extraordinary friendship with one such as Geralt, easing the bitter exhaustion caused by the morning’s events. He didn’t deserve Jaskier, but he would enjoy whatever Jaskier deigned to offer and hope that, maybe one day, he could offer something back.

______________________________________________

Geralt sat at his corner table, alone, back to wall, with a large tankard of ale held in a loose fist. The competition was about to kick off and the inn was bursting with people visiting from across the region for the famous competition. The chatter of near a hundred souls crammed into the modest room bounced against the low ceiling, coupling with the sounds of tankards hitting tables, chairs scraping the floor, and the barkeep’s yelled orders to render a deafening din. 

Geralt took a slow breath, thankful, for once, that he was given a wide berth in human settlements. His ears already rang, but at least he wasn’t crowded. The exhaustion from the day, the fights with both the wyverns and the Alderman, weighing heavily on him, making every sound seem that much louder.

He heard the inn’s large front door bang open and watched as Jaskier filed in with the other finalists, the judges leading the way. The six bards lined up on the impromptu stage set in the center of the inn’s main room. One by one, the three judges introduced the six bards in the order they would perform, each bard prompting cheers from their fans that rattled the windows and sent spikes of pain through Geralt’s temples. 

When Jaskier was introduced, he flourished a bow at the crowd, catching Geralt’s eye with smile and a wink. Geralt saluted him with his tankard, careful to keep any trace of his discomfort from his expression.

As the first bard took the stage, a lithe woman from the southwest, the audience pounded their tankards on the table and stomped their feet, cheering her on. Geralt barely contained a flinch as the noise level rose, fingers tightening on the pewter tankard almost hard enough to dent the metal.

The other five bards, Jaskier included, sat in a line behind the performer. The judges, all three in elaborate black robes with hood liners made from various colors of crushed velvet, sat in front of the stage with the performer’s submitted sheet music in hand, quills ready to take notes. 

The woman launched into her first song, an upbeat jig that well matched her strong alto, stomping her feet to the beat as her fingers flew across the neck of her lute. The crowd responded, clapping, stomping, and singing along to the chorus in a variety of discordant keys. Clearly, unlike Jaskier, this bard had chosen a well-known favorite. 

The wave of sound felt like a physical blow, slamming into Geralt from all sides as the walls and low ceiling caused the noise to ricochet. His fingers crushed into the pewter tankard, leaving obvious dents and causing warm ale to spill over his hand. The feel of the liquid jolted him back to attention and he deliberately unclenched his fingers, glad the angle of view prevented Jaskier from seeing him from where he sat in line. 

Geralt clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, mentally running through his alchemy recipes as a distraction from the noise in the room. It wasn’t Jaskier’s turn yet, and he was sequestered in the darkened corner, so he could safely turn a portion of his attention inward to bolster his flagging control. The memory of a small, coastal fishing village abruptly came to mind and he forced down the memory of (the longing for) the comfort Jaskier had provided. He would not be that weak again. It may have been forgiven then, but interrupting Jaskier’s competition would be completely unacceptable. Running away and missing it would be equally so. Even Jaskier might not forgive him for that. 

So, Geralt clenched his hands together, ground his teeth, and ran through his alchemy recipes as the first bard gave way to the second, who drew an equally loud series of cheers and stomps, and, finally, _thankfully_ , to Jaskier. 

Jaskier jumped lightly up onto the stage, Filavandrel’s lute in hand, and bowed gracefully to the judges and to the crowd. He caught Geralt’s eye, a frown of concern darting across his face as he saw the tension in Geralt’s jaw, but it was gone as soon as he turned back to the judges to begin his set. 

As he launched into the first song, a powerful ballad about the White Wolf’s fight that past spring against a fearsome Bruxa, he caught Geralt’s eye and indicted the stairs with his chin, giving him permission to leave.

Geralt caught the gesture and froze. He couldn’t leave, not while Jaskier was performing. How would that look? If the judges noticed the person who left mid-song was none other than its subject? The risk was unacceptable. No, Geralt would stay and support Jaskier. He could control himself. He was trained for control, _mutated_ for control. He wouldn’t shame his friend by failing again.

Geralt closed his eyes and focused his acute hearing entirely on Jaskier’s voice, on the melodies drawn out of the lute by his skilled fingers. He discreetly sniffed the air, catching the comforting scent of Jaskier’s rosin and honey. He forced his attention to stay on Jaskier and Jaskier alone, trusting that no great harm would come to him while under Jaskier’s eye. The familiar voice, even if the melody and lyrics were new, soothed his frayed nerves and some of the pressure in Geralt’s head eased. 

As Jaskier finished his set to the most raucous applause yet, he ran his eyes over Geralt again, pleased to see he looked more relaxed than earlier, but still concerned. Geralt wouldn’t thank him for drawing attention to his discomfort, but Jaskier planned to get Geralt out of there as soon as he was released from the stage for the judges’ deliberations. He sent Geralt a reassuring smile before returning to his seat and losing sight of him behind a large pillar.

Geralt tried desperately to cling to the calm brought about by Jaskier’s performance, but the fourth and fifth bards each belted out loud, fast, tunes replete with banging chords and stomps, riling the large, increasingly drunken audience up more and more. 

By the time the sixth bard, an older man with an aristocratic air, took the stage, Geralt was nearly at his limit. The clapping echoed in his skull, the stomping rattled his bones, and the singing sent piercing pain through his temples. 

The volume increased as the end of the performance neared, audience members losing all control of their voices as the ale took firm hold. When the sixth bard struck his final note and bowed, the crowd exploded, jumping to their feet and screaming out the names of their favorites.

The windows rattled in their frames from the noise. In the wall of sound, the sudden, sharp scrape of a chair shoved backwards against the wood floor close to his right side made Geralt flinch violently into the left-hand wall, cracking his head on a wooden beam. He felt his breathing rapidly increase, his heart pounding in his chest, as his body interpreted the aural assault and the sudden pain from the strike to his left temple as an attack. 

Alchemy recipes were no longer a distraction. The pain in his head, the pain in his jaw, from where his nails dug into his clenched fists, none of it was sufficient to overcome the overwhelming assault on his senses. Geralt felt his control slipping away and hated himself for it, for failing again to restrain his reactions. He felt panic rise, the corner suddenly feeling less like a reassuring embrace and more like a prison, trapping him between the immovable walls and the relentless, painfully loud noise of the crowd. 

Suddenly, there was a presence on his right side. A hand landed gently on his right forearm and Geralt flinched, baring his teeth and spinning to face the intruder. 

Jaskier took in the tension in his friend’s frame, the bruise blossoming over his left eye, and the wild, unfocused expression. He instantly remembered the coast, how painful the overwhelming smell had been for his friend and how long he had fought against the pain before finally succumbing. His heart dropped. Geralt had been pushed past his limits yet again and he knew the public nature of the breakdown would make it that much worse. 

Jaskier spoke softly, gently rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s forearm. “Geralt? It’s Jaskier. It’s past dark and you’re in the inn for the bardic competition. Can you look at me, please?” This was the first time Jaskier was grateful people did not stray too close to his Witcher. In the dark corner, Geralt was largely hidden from the eyes of others and people were unlikely to disturb them.

Geralt’s eyes darted around room, tracking spikes in sound, before slowly focusing on Jaskier, the familiar voice and grounding words breaking through the panic. Geralt couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond, his words stolen away, overwhelmed by the assault on his sensitive ears. Geralt felt unable to escape the storm of noise causing his distress but looked to Jaskier for a port of calm. 

“There you are.” Jaskier smiled, keeping his voice light and cheerful. “The judges are deliberating, so I think it’s time for us to head upstairs. I could use a rest, and they’ll be a while.” Jaskier knew focusing on his own needs, rather than Geralt’s would be more likely to prod Geralt into motion. Jaskier desperately wanted to soothe his friend, to ease his tension, to embrace him, but knew Geralt would not, could not, relax in public and would be deeply shamed by displaying anything he perceived as weakness where others could see. 

Geralt frowned, eyes focusing more as concern for Jaskier penetrated his overwhelmed mind. He nodded and rose from the bench, letting Jaskier lead him toward the stairs. As they ascended, one of the local bards not in the competition struck up a lively tune to keep the waiting crowd entertained. As the noise level suddenly rose again, this time at his open back, Geralt flinched away, a whine caught in his throat, hands raising as if to cover his ears before he forcibly stopped himself, digging his hands into his thighs.

Jaskier reached back and took Geralt’s hand, drawing him quickly up the stairs and into their room – thankfully at the back of the inn – and shutting the heavy wooden door.

As the noise suddenly diminished to a dull background hum, Geralt stopped in the middle of the room, panting with relief. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, eyes darting around before landing on Jaskier with a silent plea. Geralt didn’t know what he needed, just that he needed, and he was still unbalanced enough to forget himself and ask for help, albeit without words.

Jaskier answered immediately, stepping into Geralt’s space and guiding him over to sit on the bed, gently directing him until he was lying down, head in Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier covered Geralt’s ears with his hands and rubbed soothing circles across his temples and jaw. Geralt’s eyes closed, trusting Jaskier to keep him safe.

Slowly, _slowly_ the tension left Geralt’s face. He heaved a sigh and his eyes opened. Jaskier could see the moment he fully returned to himself, as Geralt’s expression shifted quickly from soft relief into deep shame. Geralt moved to sit up and Jaskier stopped him with a hand on his chest. 

“Easy, just lie back.” Jaskier instructed, calm and authoritative. “You need to let your body recover.”

Geralt briefly pressed up against the restraining hand before giving in, eyes flicking up and away from Jaskier’s, shame coloring his cheeks and warming the tips of his ears.

Geralt took a breath, opening his mouth to speak several times before it took. “Forgive me. Again. My lack of control is inexcusable.”

Jaskier’s lips pressed into a thin line, heart aching for his friend, for the impossible standards to which he held himself. For the lack of care, of comfort, in his long lifetime that had led him to believe such things were unwarranted when applied to him.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Jaskier said gently, firmly, echoing their earlier conversation on the coast. “I only ask one thing.”

Geralt looked up, eager to hear how he could fix this, how he could please his friend, repay him for having to coddle him through yet another breakdown.

“Tell me next time so I can help you before it gets to this point. Or, if you can't, just leave, give yourself some distance from whatever is hurting you.” Jaskier was almost begging, pleading with his friend to take even this modicum of care for his own needs.

Geralt blanched. “I wouldn’t leave you.” He said, an almost frantic note in his normally measured tone.

Jaskier rubbed a hand across Geralt’s forehead, smoothing back his hair before pressing a kiss between his eyes. “I know, and I wouldn’t leave you either. I just want you to go far enough that it’s not too loud, or too stinky, or too _whatever_ for you. I couldn’t abide it if I were the cause of your distress because you felt you needed to stay somewhere for me. If you need to leave, I will understand, and I will find you again in that safer place.”

Geralt blinked at the kiss, shocked. No one had ever done that to him before. It was unexpected. Nice? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know how to respond. But Jaskier had done it, so it must be all right. 

He heard the words, saw how important this was to Jaskier. “I will try.” He said finally. He couldn’t promise more. Wouldn’t leave if Jaskier could get hurt. Or disappointed. That wasn’t worth it. But maybe if there was no harm, he could give himself a little break when things got to be too much. He should be able to control himself, to let the overstimulation wash off his back, but if his control failed, if he were already shamed, maybe a little relief wouldn’t hurt? He’d consider it.

A sudden shout cut through the hum from below. Not loud, not startling, just enough for Geralt to make out that results would be announced shortly. 

“We should go down.” He said to Jaskier, “results are about to be announced.” He sat up and straightened his clothes, taking a fortifying breath as if he were about to head into a battle. In a way, he was.

Jaskier wanted to stay, wanted to keep Geralt here in this quiet room, wanted to protect his friend, to sooth the furrows and lines of tension and shame from his face. But he knew that wouldn’t help now. Geralt would blame himself for Jaskier missing the announcement, and that would overpower any relief staying in the quiet could provide.

Jaskier sighed and smiled up at his impossible, selfless, stubborn friend. “All right, but let me do something for you before we go.” He held up an admonishing finger when he saw Geralt about to protest. “No arguments.”

Jaskier stretched across the bed and grabbed the strap of his bag, pulling it over and digging around inside. Triumphantly, he brandished the linen handkerchief he’d found before tearing off two strips of the cloth and forming them into tight balls. 

“Come here,” Jaskier directed, patting the bed. Geralt sat. “Now, face me, please.” 

Jaskier reached up and placed a ball of linen in each of Geralt’s ears, gently positioning them to fully block the ear canal without forcing them in far enough to hurt.

Geralt scrunched up his face at the tickling sensation. As Jaskier settled the balls of linen into place, the noise around him was muffled by half. His eyes widened. 

Jaskier smiled at him. “Better?” Geralt nodded. “Good. We can go now.” He said, standing and holding out a hand to Geralt. 

Geralt took his hand and stood. Just before placing his hand on the doorknob, Jaskier turned back and pointed a finger at Geralt, saying firmly, “if it gets too loud, you’re to come back up here right away, you hear?”

Geralt frowned. “I can handle it, especially with these sound blockers you’ve made.”

Jaskier poked his finger into Geralt’s chest, emphasizing his words. “Not the point. I don’t want you to suffer. If it’s too loud, if it hurts, come up.” Jaskier softened his tone, flattening his palm to Geralt’s chest. “Please.”

Geralt’s shoulders loosened, hearing the honest plea. “I promise.” If it would make Jaskier happy, he would do it.

Jaskier beamed at him and they walked back down the stairs, hand in hand.

Jaskier positioned Geralt at the base of the stairs, leaving him with a clear route of escape. With the linen in his ears, the sound was greatly diminished. Still loud, but not loud enough that Geralt would need to leave or risk breaking his word. 

As Jaskier joined the other five finalists on stage, the crowd hushed. The judges announced their winners. In third place, the first bard, the lithe southwestern woman, in second, the aristocratic uncle.

The crowd held its breath.

“And, in first place,” the announcing judge took a dramatic pause, “Master Jaskier!”

Jaskier face lit up and he immediately caught Geralt’s eye. The ensuing cheers were loud, but not painfully so, and Geralt allowed a fond, proud smile to form, nodding at Jaskier warmly.

Jaskier beamed at him before turning to accept his prize.

If allowing Jaskier to help made him this happy, if it allowed him to witness Jaskier’s triumphs, maybe it would be all right to accept the help. 

As Geralt watched Jaskier accept the adulation of the crowd, gaining the recognition he fully deserved as the cheers flowed around Geralt without assaulting his sensitive ears, protected as they were by Jaskier’s invention, Geralt's chest filled with an unfamiliar warmth. It felt suspiciously like joy.


	3. Taste - Late Winter, Year 1253

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline context: This is after the Child Surprise banquet in Cintra, which occurred when Pavetta was 15 in 1252.
> 
> CW: mentions of skipped meals, Geralt's headspace, nausea

**TASTE – Late Winter, Year 1253**

For the first time in the several years of their acquaintance, Geralt chose to spend the winter with Jaskier in Oxenfurt. The last contract of the prior Autumn had run long, leaving Geralt with little time to make the long trek back to Kaer Morhen before winter froze the mountain pass. 

As they were already near Oxenfurt, Jaskier offered to host Geralt for the winter. Upon assurance that Jaskier’s lodgings had an appropriate stall for Roach, and that they were far from the hubbub of the city center, Geralt agreed. He sent word to Vesemir of his plans – so as not to worry his mentor when he failed to return – and settled in for the winter with Jaskier.

Jaskier was set to teach a class that winter on advanced song writing, limited to only the most talented students, and he had been planning the curriculum for weeks. Although he had spent the past several winters teaching, this was the first time he had been tapped to lead an advanced seminar. 

Doubtless, the honor was bestowed in large part due to his win at the Kaedwen Regional Bardic Competition, which he had followed up with a solid, top tier finish at the Continental Finals in Novigrad. Geralt had no doubt that he would win the next year, and already had plans to set the coming Spring’s itinerary to ensure Jaskier would be able to compete in at least one of the regional qualifiers.

The winter passed quietly. Unlike the rest of the year, Jaskier’s schedule ruled, and Geralt spent his days exercising Roach, replenishing his stocks of potions, and conducting in-depth maintenance on his armor and weaponry. 

Around his self-imposed tasks, Geralt found himself with a lot of free time, something he had never before experienced. When wintering at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir always had a list of tasks, everything from hunting, to collecting firewood, to repairing the crumbling façade of the castle itself. 

Geralt had tried attending Jaskier’s class, but while he enjoyed seeing his friend in his element, his presence was overly distracting for the students. Delighted at Geralt’s academic interest, Jaskier arranged with the university librarian for Geralt to have unlimited access to Oxenfurt’s vast collection. And so, after completing his chores for the day, Geralt would spend hours buried in the stacks, for once letting his interests dictate his choice of reading material. It was a novel experience and one he deeply enjoyed.

At Kaer Morhen, there were always new, topical tomes to study, but here, given that Oxenfurt did not have any bestiaries in its collection, Geralt allowed himself the luxury of learning about new topics. He read deeply on everything he could, studying up on topics from folklore to blacksmithing to farming practices. When he was sure no one was in the library with him, he even indulged in the occasional epic poem or novel. He always felt a certain anxiety when reading for pure pleasure, but, if he studied first and had already completed his chores, he felt it might be all right to indulge just a little.

Every night, over dinner brought to their rooms by the University kitchens, Geralt listened to Jaskier’s report on that day’s classes. With gentle prompting, Geralt shared his day as well, telling Jaskier about anything new he discovered on his outings with Roach, as well as any interesting information he learned during his daily study in the library. At first, Geralt could only manage a few words, unused to casual conversation and embarrassed at the topics of study he chose. But, over the weeks they spent together in those warm, wood paneled rooms, enjoying hearty, simple fare together at the small table by the fire, Geralt relaxed, sharing more and more each day.

One day, about halfway through the long winter, Geralt even brought himself to share the epic poem he had read that day, color tinging his cheeks as he revealed his secret pleasure, unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes. Since then, Jaskier would inquire about any poems or novels Geralt had read, including them in the conversation with no special attention given. Geralt didn’t know how to express his gratitude, his relief at Jaskier’s understanding of his internal conflict over pleasure reading, other than to share as much as he was able. 

As they spoke, as Geralt’s words started to come more easily, they would occasionally share historical or personal information as well. Geralt learned that Jaskier was born the Viscount de Lettenhove, and that he left home to follow his calling. His parents were dismayed, but ultimately understanding. He still retained his title, as he was the eldest son, but his younger brother inherited the estate and its lands and was doing well as the estate manager. 

In response, Geralt shared brief outlines of his past, unwilling to delve into detail but equally unwilling to fail to reciprocate when Jaskier shared personal information with him. Geralt knew the power of shared history, could hear the old, scabbed over pain in Jaskier’s words, and was driven to respond. So, he told Jaskier that all witchers were Child Surprises. That most failed to survive the training. About the agony of the Trial of the Grasses, about being the only witcher in history to receive additional mutations. When the sharing became too raw, when Geralt couldn’t bring himself to speak further, Jaskier would place a gentle hand on his, smile, and change the topic to something light, something cheerful, and they would move on.

Geralt had never experienced a life like this. It was a glimpse of what might have been had he never been left on the side of the road for Vesemir. Had he not been mutated into something monstrous, something that must live outside regular, human life. Jaskier was the first friend Geralt had ever had, and likely would be the last. Jaskier was someone extraordinary, someone who looked at Geralt and saw nobility, morality, someone he wanted to share his life with. 

Geralt didn’t see that when he looked at himself. He knew he was a mutated monster barely a step above those he hunted. He knew this brief time with Jaskier was a dream unlikely to be repeated. He knew he didn’t deserve Jaskier, didn’t deserve this calm, comfortable winter, but he knew that Jaskier was happy he was there, happy to care for the witcher he called his dearest friend. 

Geralt didn’t understand why Jaskier granted him such gentle care, such affectionate attention, but, after all these years, he understood that allowing Jaskier in, allowing Jaskier to care for him, made Jaskier happy. And Geralt would do anything to ensure Jaskier’s happiness. 

__________________________________________________________

Toward the end of winter, as the snowbells were poking their heads out of the thick, icy ground to greet the coming Spring, Jaskier burst back into their shared quarters in the late afternoon, bursting with excitement. 

“Lord Navelle has a contract for you and had invited us to his banquet this evening!” Jaskier stood in front of Geralt where he sat by the fire, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes bright.

“Who?”

“Lord Navelle!” Jaskier said, excitement driving up both the pitch and volume of his voice. “He’s a prominent Southern noble, driven here by the war, and he’s one of the most sought-after patrons of the bardic arts! He’s been supporting bards for decades and getting an invitation to one of his banquets has been my dream since I was a student.” Jaskier paced around the room, too delighted to remain still. “The things I could learn from him! The access he might grant to his collection of music! It’s beyond my wildest dreams!” 

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t enjoy the company of nobility – Jaskier excepted, of course – but he would do anything in his power to keep that smile on Jaskier’s face. “What contract does he have for me?”

“His herald didn’t say, just that Lord Navelle wanted to discuss it with you in person and asked that you and I attend the banquet tonight as his guests.” Jaskier turned pleading eyes on Geralt. “We can go, can’t we?” He bit his lip as if he thought Geralt might refuse. Geralt could never refuse Jaskier.

“Of course. When do we need to be there?” Geralt said, rising to his feet and putting his book away.

Jaskier beamed. “The herald said Lord Navelle will send a carriage at sundown, so we have about an hour.” He spun toward the door. “I’ll send for a bath! We have to look our best for the occasion!”

Geralt smiled fondly as Jaskier darted out to order the bath from the housemaid. Banquets weren’t his favorite evening activity, he far preferred a quiet dinner with Jaskier, but he wouldn’t dampen his friend’s excitement by showing his reticence. Fortunately, Jaskier had obtained formal clothes for Geralt in case of such an occasion, this time choosing simple, muted colors much more to Geralt’s taste than the pale green monstrosity he chose in Cintra the year prior. 

Geralt pulled out the finery, hearing Jaskier running back down the hall, and was content.

______________________________________________________________

Geralt and Jaskier sat at the high table with Lord Navelle, looking out over the gathered crowd. Apparently, the inspiration for this banquet was Lord Navelle’s recent receipt of a much-anticipated shipment of produce and spices from his Southern holdings. With the supply lines largely shut down by the war with Nilfgaard, getting anything through was cause for great celebration. Or, as Lord Navelle had put it, “a celebration to relieve the culinary doldrums of the North with the fiery cuisine of the South!” Geralt didn’t see the great appeal, but if he got a good, filling meal out of it, that was enough.

Lord Navelle had sent the carriage at sundown as promised. It was Geralt’s first time in a carriage, having only previously ridden in wheeled carts, but Jaskier looked completely at home among the velvet seats and gilded walls, peeking out the sheer curtains with almost childlike glee as they drove through the city, the hoof beats of the four-in-hand team echoing off the buildings surrounding them.

It was times like these when Geralt was struck again with just how fortunate he was that Jaskier chose to travel with one such as him. To the manor born, Jaskier could easily handle all social situations. He sat gracefully in a fine carriage dressed in fashionable silk, he knew which utensils to use at any table, and he could speak eloquently with any interlocutor. Geralt, however, felt like a hunting dog who had been given the rare pleasure of being allowed indoors, too large and too rough for the elegant surroundings. 

He knew he was getting dangerously used to Jaskier’s company, to the comfort he provided, and that it would be all the harder to readapt to his prior, solitary ways when Jaskier finally tired of him. But for Jaskier’s presence, Geralt was sure the contract would have been delivered to him by the herald at the back of the Lord’s home, keeping him well out of reach of any eyes who might spy a degenerate at the Lord’s gate.

Lord Navelle had called them to his manor well before the banquet was due to start and received them in the formal sitting room to discuss the details of the contract with Geralt. From the sound of it, it was a basilisk that had taken up roost in one of the abandoned silos on Lord Navelle’s small, Northern holdings. Unlike his vast Southern holdings, Lord Navelle had only a small plot of large for raising sheep this far north and did not have the range to simply relocate the herd away from the new predator. He had already lost near a quarter of the herd and could not afford to lose more, lest the beast turn to human prey instead for lack of mutton.

Basilisks were tough hunts. Enormous, crafty beasts somewhere between a bird of prey and a reptile, they were deadly quick, and their tough hide made precise, close quarters strikes the only way to dispatch them. But the long range of their large talons and sharp, hooked beaks made close quarters fighting treacherous, and Geralt had many a large scar from encounters with prior basilisks. Nevertheless, the pay was generous and Geralt would not risk offending Jaskier’s hero by refusing the contract. It was his Path to walk and he was well aware of the inherent dangers.

Naturally, during the course of their meeting, Jaskier had completely charmed Lord Navelle, and the two of them happily discussed bardic history, musical composition, and their theories on the next great artistic trends until the other guests began to arrive. Interested in continuing their conversation, Lord Navelle seated Jaskier on his right, a place of honor, with Geralt on Jaskier’s other side. 

As the food and drink started to arrive, Jaskier and Lord Navelle were arguing the finer points of melodic motifs and Geralt was listening with half an ear to the elderly woman on his right. Geralt could see the cataracts clouding her eyes and did not correct her when she assumed his white hair was a sign of age and not the mark of advanced mutation. She seemed as hard of hearing as she was of sight, and Geralt’s minimal contributions to the conversation had not yet deterred her from telling tales of the “good old days” confident that Geralt was sharing in her nostalgia.

The first course arrived on large silver platters, placed on the table before them with a flourish by the uniformed footmen. It was a series of small canapes comprised of what appeared to be bright fruits and vegetables coated in either sugar or spices. 

Geralt’s nose burned at the smell of the intense spices, but spotlighted as his was at Lord Navelle’s table, he knew he could not simply abstain. He scanned the platter for the simplest looking and mildest smelling morsel, choosing what looked like a piece of sugared apple in a simple pastry. 

He bit into the pastry and a flood of heavily spiced, sweet, baked apple burst into his mouth. The strong spices were immediately overpowering, and he choked down the mouthful, violently suppressing the urge to gag. Glancing quickly around to make sure no one was watching him he surreptitiously tossed the rest of the pastry into the vase behind his elderly neighbor. 

Taking a deep draw of his ale, which fortunately tasted as expected, he took several deep, slow breaths to calm his roiling stomach. Fortunately, his dinner companion had made no note of either his distress or his disposal of the offending pastry, simply continuing to chatter away as she ate an alarming number of the spiced canapes. 

Geralt sipped his ale slowly, grabbing a few broken off pieces of canape to put on his plate and disguise his abstention from the first course. Nobles were often easily offended if a guest did not like their food, and doubly so when it was a witcher, whom they assumed should be grateful for any scraps thrown their way. Geralt had no idea whether or not Lord Navelle ascribed to that view, but he wasn’t about to test it and risk interrupting Jaskier’s evening. 

Finally, the canapes were removed, and the main course was presented, brought to the table in large, steaming, silver tureens. 

As the tureens were brought out, Lord Navelle stood to address the crowd. “Friends, tonight we have a special dish for your pleasure, the fiery specialty of my hometown in the beleaguered South, its preparation tonight only made possible due to the stunning bravery and persistence of the Captain and crew of my shipping fleet. Made of the freshest mollusks, prawns, and fat ocean fish, slow simmered in the finest mix of peppers and spices from my Southern holdings, please enjoy this Southern Seafood Curry!” Lord Navelle boomed with all the drama of a king bestowing a boon. Serving himself a generous helping from the tureen set in front of him, he gestured to all to eat and eat well, before sitting and digging into his meal with obvious pleasure.

Turning to Jaskier, he said, “it’s devilishly hard to get these ingredients, and none of them store well for long. I couldn’t bear to waste anything we received, and what better cause for a banquet than sharing one’s homeland specialties!” He indicated the tureen in front of Jaskier, “please, eat and don’t hold back. I’m enormously proud of the produce from my home and I’m eager to hear your thoughts.”

“Geralt and I are honored and pleased to have been invited to dine with you, my Lord. The chance to try your homeland’s famed seafood curry is an unexpected and deeply appreciated pleasure.” Jaskier responded, taking his own serving, excited to try the new dish with the spices he’d heard of, but had never before tasted. He turned a smile on Geralt before focusing on his meal, making a pleased noise when he tasted the unfamiliar, complex spices.

Lord Navelle watched as Jaskier tried the dish, flashed a pleased grin when he saw Jaskier’s obvious enjoyment, and turned to his left, indicating to the entire banquet hall that it was time to speak to one’s other dinner companion.

Geralt looked at the curry in Jaskier’s bowl, felt his nostrils burn from the spice, felt is mouth fill with saliva as nausea rose in his stomach. He watched the mollusks squish under Jaskier’s fork, their fat bodies shining, and bile rose in his throat. The prawns and fish, typically inoffensive, were cooked down and overly soft, completely engorged in the fiery, red chili sauce. The rice completing the curry was cooked so long as to be almost unrecognizable, changing in texture from grains to something almost like porridge. Just looking at it made Geralt’s stomach sink and roil, forcing him to choke down a gag. 

With his stomach already sensitive from the unfortunate apple pastry, Geralt knew he could not even place a serving on his plate, let alone eat it, without becoming ill. He could barely stand to look at the dish, purposefully focusing his attention on the fine detailing on the cutlery, reciting blade oil recipes in his head as a distraction.

Fortunately, the large room and high ceilings kept the smell from being overwhelming, so as long as he didn’t try to touch or taste the heavily spiced, oddly textured curry, he thought he could hold it together. Even the thought of disrupting Jaskier’s evening by becoming ill was enough to make his face burn with shame.

Jaskier was happily humming to himself as he worked through his curry, clearly enjoying the exotic spices. Lord Navelle had turned to the companion on his left for conversation, as was appropriate, so Jaskier turned to Geralt and noticed the empty plate.

He put his fork down, immediately concerned. “Geralt?” He asked, “are you feeling unwell?”

Geralt swallowed hard against the nausea roiling in his stomach, gathering himself before he responded. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, not wanting to interrupt the otherwise jovial banquet.

Jaskier frowned, seeing the tight lines on Geralt’s face and the way he carefully kept his eyes down. “Geralt, you promised to tell me if something was wrong, remember?”

Geralt’s lips thinned in distress, caught between breaking his promise and breaking up the evening, unwilling to do either. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier prodded, voice soft enough to avoid drawing attention. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Do you need to leave? Is it too loud?”

Geralt heard the increasing concern in Jaskier’s voice and pushed himself to respond. A promise made must be kept, he firmly told himself. He took a fortifying breath, careful to breathe through his mouth and avoid burning his nose on the spices. “I don’t need to leave. I just can’t eat _that_.” He indicated the tureen without looking at it.

Jaskier’s brows drew together, confused. “Do you not like spice?”

Geralt forced himself to explain. “It’s too much. The spices, the textures, all of it. It’s too much.” He finally met Jaskier’s eyes, hoping he would understand what Geralt could not say.

Jaskier looked down, examining his meal, seeing the intense flavors and various, unusual textures. “I understand.” He said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Jaskier turned to Lord Navelle, begging his forgiveness for the interruption. “My Lord, I have a favor to ask of you.” Geralt’s eyes widened behind him. Surely Jaskier wasn’t going to risk offending Lord Navelle over something so trivial as Geralt missing a meal.

Lord Navelle raised his eyebrows, indicating Jaskier should continue, allowing the interruption out of his growing affection for the talented bard.

“It is Witcher custom to eat only the plainest foods before a hunt so as to ensure their battle potions retain the utmost efficacy. As wonderful as this curry is – and it is a delightful treat! – Geralt asked if he might have something simple. Basilisks are a tough beast to hunt and he does not wish to add any unnecessary risk. He understands how important it is to you that this is handled with the utmost speed and discretion.”

Lord Navelle looked over at Geralt, seeing the empty plate, and asked, “is that true, Witcher?”

“Yes, Lord Navelle.” Geralt felt the words drag against his throat, dread filling him as he anticipated Lord Navelle’s reaction. Requests like this never ended well.

Lord Navelle pursed his lips before nodding. “Very well, it is unfortunate you cannot enjoy this special dish, but I would not want to interfere with your work.” He waved over one of the footmen. “Take the Witcher’s order and have Cook make him whatever he requires.” He directed before returning to his conversation partner.

The footman turned to Geralt, waiting. Geralt almost couldn’t respond, struck nearly dumb by the easy acceptance offered by Lord Navelle. Adrenaline coursed through him, deprived of an outlet.

“Anything Cook has on hand that’s simple and without spice.” Geralt managed to request and the footman nodded before running off. Another footman cleared the tureen from in front of Geralt and whisked away his unused plate.

Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt’s thigh under the table. “You all right?” He asked quietly. 

Geralt nodded, surprised at how well that had gone. Jaskier had managed to save him yet again. 

Jaskier squeezed his thigh before returning to his dinner, carefully angling the bowl out of Geralt’s eye line. 

Shortly, the footman hurried back and placed a large platter in front of Geralt. Bread, cold meats, and plain, boiled vegetables were heaped on it. The footman bowed, and left Geralt to his meal.

Jaskier smiled as he saw Geralt immediately dig in. “Better?” He asked.

Geralt nodded, taking a big bite of a chicken leg before pausing. He swallowed hard, jaw clenching, before turning to Jaskier. “Thank you. Again.” He looked down, ashamed. “Forgive me for interrupting your evening.”

Jaskier huffed, exasperated and fond, before saying quietly, voice pitched to be audible to Geralt alone. “Thank _you_ for telling me what the problem was so I could help. I told you before, I want to know when something is wrong so I can help before it gets to be too much.”

Geralt still didn’t understand Jaskier’s insistence on helping him even when it was his own lack of control that was the cause of the problem. But he couldn’t deny the results – Jaskier was happy and he had an edible dinner before him. He hadn’t pushed himself to choke down the food, hadn’t risked a humiliating, public breakdown. He hadn’t had to go hungry either. He’d told Jaskier what was wrong and the problem had been solved. 

Geralt felt something lighten within him, warmth filling a space inside he’d never been aware of before. He reached out, placing his hand on Jaskier’s thigh under the table, squeezing lightly, mirroring Jaskier’s prior gesture. He leaned toward Jaskier, breathing in his comforting scent, and continued eating his simple dinner, smiling slightly as he felt Jaskier’s warm hand cover his own.


	4. SIGHT - Mid-Summer, Year 1253

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Battle scene, mentions of blood and injury (minor), Geralt's headspace, mentions of brothel prostitution (canon typical, brief, non-explicit mention), prejudice from villagers toward Witchers

SIGHT – Mid-Summer, Year 1253 

As summer reached its height, the sun beating down on the land and sending drought racing across the continent, Geralt and Jaskier reached Lindenvale, a small, impoverished village in Velen. Surrounded by swamp lands and devastated by the epidemic that followed the ever-northward march of the Nilfgaardian army, Lindenvale had the air of a village for which survival had become the goal, and thriving an unattainable dream. 

Geralt had received word from Vesemir about an unusual increase in the number of traveler deaths in Velen, especially for this time of year when drought restricted the territory of the native drowners. It was rare for Vesemir to dictate a Witcher’s Path, and the rarity of the order made clear its urgency. So, immediately upon receipt, Geralt and Jaskier had packed up Roach and changed course for Lindenvale. 

As they walked up the road to the village, Roach led between them, Geralt scanned the swampland on either side of the road, eyes narrowing as he took in the unusual stillness. No birds chirped in the trees. No bugs danced across the stagnant water. No village children scampered about looking for frogs. It was as if the world had died, leaving only the swamp. 

Geralt felt unease fill him and stopped to mount Roach, pulling Jaskier up behind him. Without a word, he kicked Roach into a gallop, anxious to put as much distance between them and the dead swamp as possible. He would come back to investigate, but he would not put Jaskier or Roach at risk doing so now. 

Jaskier was surprised at the sudden change, but seeing the tension in Geralt’s face, kept quiet, holding on tightly around Geralt’s middle as they raced over the narrow, dirt road toward Lindenvale. 

As the gate to the village came into view, Nilfgaardian guards flanking it, Geralt slowed to avoid causing undue alarm. As they reached the gate, he stopped, dismounting and offering Jaskier a hand down before nodding to the guards and leading Roach through the gate. 

“You’ll be wanting to see the Alderman, Witcher.” One of the guards called after them. “Bad times afoot.” 

Geralt looked over his shoulder and nodded sharply before continuing on. 

“Damn freak.” The other guard muttered, just loud enough for Geralt to hear. 

“Shaddup! We can’t afford to refuse his help!” The first said, elbowing his mate. 

Their bickering faded even from Geralt’s hearing as they continued deeper into the village seeking the Alderman. As in most villages, the people they passed whispered and pointed at Geralt, fear and revulsion in their eyes. But, unlike in most villages, that fear and revulsion was tempered with a grudging relief. That edge of relief told Geralt just how bad the monster problem must have become for the average villager to feel that way about a Witcher. 

Jaskier frowned as he picked up on the usual whispers. He’d been doing his best to improve Geralt’s reputation through songs and stories, and this village clearly needed a dose of his best. With as dire as the problem was rumored to be, the villagers should have been delighted to see Geralt, not barely tolerant. Jaskier glanced over at Geralt, checking in but knowing any public display of concern would be unwanted. As usual, Geralt’s face was impassive, seemingly unconcerned about the reception he received. But after their years of travelling together, Jaskier could see the small lines of tension, the way his eyes lost their brightness, and vowed to do whatever he could to show people here, and everywhere, that the Geralt _he_ knew was very different from the horror stories told to children about feral Witchers. Far from stealing children in the night, his Witcher was a noble protector who would shield them from harm with his very life. 

Within moments, they reached the Alderman’s house, a relatively large two room thatched hut in the center of the modest village. Geralt tied Roach to the hitching post outside, giving her a pat and making sure the water in the trough was clean before approaching the entrance. 

Outside the Alderman’s door, a large notice was posted, “Witcher needed! Dangerous specters about!” it said in roughly scrawled letters, charcoal on an old linen cloth. Geralt hummed as he looked at the notice, trailing his fingers over the frayed edges of the cloth. 

“They must be desperate to ask for a Witcher.” He said quietly. 

“Don’t most contracts?” Jaskier asked, confused by Geralt’s surprise. 

“Hm.” Geralt dropped his hand away from the notice. “Not so explicitly. People always hold out hope that someone else, someone human, can save them. It’s why they’re always so disappointed when I show up.” He said flatly, pushing open the Alderman’s door before Jaskier could respond to the layers of wrongness in that statement. His heart clenched for Geralt, but he shoved the issue aside. Now was not the time. 

The Alderman jumped to his feet when they entered, startled by their sudden appearance. The village accounting book was spread out on the table before him. He was an older man, stooped by age, as most Alderman were, but his watery eyes were free of the usual distrust, and he greeted Geralt warmly. 

“Ah, Witcher!” He said, smiling broadly, “I’m so glad to see you! Judging by your hair, you must be the famous White Wolf of Rivia!” He thrust out his hand and vigorously shook Geralt’s. 

Geralt blinked at him, taken aback by the rare welcome, hand trapped in the Alderman’s enthusiastic grip. Jaskier grinned from behind him, pleased to see someone finally greeting Geralt properly. 

“And you must be his bard!” The Alderman dropped Geralt’s hand, grabbing Jaskier’s instead in both his frail hands. “How wonderful to finally meet you both!” 

Geralt was frozen, unsure of how to respond to such a warm, joyful greeting. Was it a trap? Was it genuine? The indecision paralyzed him. Jaskier saw Geralt’s discomfort and immediately stepped in, placing his other hand over the Alderman’s gnarled ones and smiling down at him. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well! You are correct, this is Geralt of Rivia and I am Jaskier, his humble, travelling bard.” Jaskier released the Alderman’s hands and bowed with a flourish. 

The Alderman beamed, displaying the deep smile lines around his aging eyes. 

“How delightful!” He clasped his hands in front of his chest. “I’ve heard your songs, Bard, but I never dreamed to have the chance to meet either you or your famous subject!” The Alderman sighed happily, simply staring at Geralt and Jaskier, grinning. 

After a moment, the Alderman came back to himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. “My wife will be so jealous she missed you! Her sister is unwell, so she’s off caring for her, you know.” 

Jaskier could barely contain himself from cooing over the adorable old man. It was always nice to meet a true fan. 

Geralt had no idea how to react. He’d never been faced with such naked admiration, with someone so genuinely chuffed to see him. He wasn’t sure if he should feel pleased or alarmed, so he fell back on the set pattern of picking up a contract from an Alderman. 

“I hear you have a contract for me, Alderman.” He said, attempting to direct the Alderman back onto familiar footing. 

The Alderman clapped his hands together decisively. “Quite right, quite right.” He shuffled over to the desk and pulled out a piece of thick parchment. “Right here, Master Geralt.” He said, handing it over. 

Geralt eyes widened, shocked again by this diminutive man who treated him like a favorite friend. He’d never been called “Master Geralt” in all his long life, that courtesy, that familiarity reserved only for humans, not mutants. The closest he’d ever heard was “Master Witcher”, but that was always said with a note of disdain, making it clear the nominal respect afforded by that title would only be extended as long as Geralt made himself useful. It was the rare person who even called him by name. 

Geralt forced himself back to the present moment, relying on his training to carry him through the interaction with this perplexing man. He took the contract and read it over carefully, Jaskier looking over his shoulder. It was a dispatch from the Nilfgaardian Army, given to the Alderman to execute. It described a vague threat in the swamps, lights in the fog, travelers led astray to their deaths in the muddy water, large parties of people and horses ripped apart. It was breaking down supply lines and must be stopped, the contract said. The pay was appropriately generous for such a vague and dangerous assignment. 

Geralt hummed over the words, considering them carefully. “Sounds like foglets,” he said after a moment. “Nasty bastards.” He folded the contract and placed it in his pocket. “I’ll get to it now before nightfall.” He nodded to the Alderman and turned to leave. Jaskier reached out to shake the old man’s hand. 

“Wait!” The Alderman said. 

Geralt turned back, raising an eyebrow. 

“You’ll need a place to stay for the night. There are no inns here, but I have a small hut on the ridge overlooking the village. I used to use it as a hunting base, but I’m far too old for that now.” He said as he rummaged through his desk drawer, finally pulling out a large, rusted key. “Here we are, take this.” He handed over the key. “If you go to the village gate and look eastward and up, you’ll see it on the ridgeline. I’ll send one of the boys to stock it with food, water, and firewood for you now so it’s ready when you return.” 

Geralt handed the key to Jaskier, who placed it safely in the inner pocket of his light blue doublet. “Thank you, my dear sir!” Jaskier said brightly. “Shelter for the night is always much appreciated!” 

The Alderman smiled at him. “It’s the least I can do, my boy. We’ve no inn and I’m full up with visitors already or I’d offer you lodging here with me. You see, the Nilfgaardians are supposed to be putting on some sort of fire and light show on the lake over yonder tonight, something to cheer us up, I suppose, and folk have come from all over to see it.” 

“A fire and light show?” Jaskier asked. 

“Aye, Bard.” The Alderman shrugged. “Not sure what they mean by it, but I suppose we’ll all find out.” He sighed, stress showing on his face for the first time. “If they really wanted to cheer us, we’d rather they lower the tithes than give us a light show. It’s been a hard enough year without them taking our grain stores for the Army.” He shook his head at the thought, before smiling up at Geralt. “But at least they gave us the coin to hire you, brave Witcher! Once those devils are gone from the swamp, we’ll be able to forage safely again and that will be a great boon.” 

Geralt gave him a firm nod. “I can’t change the taxes, but I will clear the foglets from your swamp, Alderman.” 

The Alderman dropped into a deep bow. “May the Gods bless and protect you, Master Geralt.” 

Geralt felt utterly stunned. He had no idea how to react to this open gratitude, this deep respect, so he kept his focus on the job. “I’ll return when I’ve completed the contract.” He said, bewilderment coloring his voice, before striding out the door. Tasks and hunts he understood, this unusual old man he did not. 

Jaskier watched him go before placing a hand on the Alderman’s bowed shoulder. “Thank you, Alderman.” He said, feeling a gratitude so deep it almost hurt. 

The Alderman straightened up. “Whatever for, dear boy?” 

“For treating him kindly.” Jaskier smiled sadly, looking out at Geralt unhitching Roach and checking the fastenings on her tack. “He’s always used to deal with people’s problems, but no one ever thanks him for it.” 

The Alderman sighed deeply. “Aye, Bard. I know the Witcher’s plight. One came to our village when I was but a child, not Master Geralt, a different one, older. He took care of a pack of drowners that had killed several of us, but the elders ran him back out of town as soon as he collected his payment, didn’t even let him stop to rest.” The Alderman was lost in the memory, face pinched in remembered regret. “I think he was wounded, too. But he didn’t object, just took the coin and left. I couldn’t do anything about it then, but I promised myself that if I ever saw a Witcher again, I would thank him. Even if he didn’t do anything for me, I would thank him for what he did for our world.” 

Jaskier placed a hand on his heart and bowed slightly to the Alderman. “You are a rare soul, Alderman. I only wish there were more like you on the Path.” They shared a look of understanding before Jaskier followed Geralt out the door. 

* * *

Geralt and Jaskier found the Alderman’s hut right where he said it would be, high on the eastern ridgeline over the village with an unobstructed view of the lake below. Geralt tied Roach to the hitching line outside, leaving her with ample room to graze and filling her trough with fresh water from the nearby stream before untacking her and bringing their packs inside. 

The hut was small, but well kept. The Alderman’s boy hadn’t arrived yet with the provisions, but Jaskier went through the usual motions of settling in, laying out their bedrolls by the cold hearth as Geralt buckled on his armor. 

Finished, Jaskier moved to help Geralt with his armor, securing buckles and checking to make everything was perfectly in place. “So, what’s the story with foglets?” He asked, “I haven’t seen you fight those before.” 

Geralt hummed as he turned to his alchemy bag, armor in place. He selected a bottle of necrophage oil and sat with his silver sword, rubbing the oil carefully into the blade. “Nasty things.” He said finally. “Hunt in packs. They can create a cover of fog and use it to lure travelers off the path by flashing a light.” 

Jaskier sat back on his bedroll, watching Geralt. “My mother did always say to never follow a light in the fog.” 

“She was right.” Geralt said, finishing with the oil and sheathing his sword. “They’re tricksters. They can appear and disappear at will, and they like to make copies of themselves. The copies can’t do much damage, but the distraction is dangerous enough.” 

Geralt selected three bottles from his store of Witcher potions: Cat, for vision, Swallow, for health, and Thunderbolt, for attack. “Fucking hate them.” He muttered, tucking the three bottles carefully away. The deep scar on his left side ached. Foglet’s claws cut deep. 

Jaskier saw the tension in Geralt’s face, knowing those three potions meant Geralt expected a tough fight. “How can I help?” He asked. 

“Stay here.” Geralt said simply, strapping the swords to his back. Jaskier immediately moved to object, but Geralt stopped him with a sharp glance. “I can’t fight them fully if I’m worried about keeping track of you in the fog.” 

Jaskier frowned, but relented. “Fine, but I’m coming to look for you if you’re gone too long.” 

Geralt shook his head firmly. “No, it’s too dangerous. I don’t know how many there are or how long this will take. I have to know you’re safely away.” Geralt sighed, softening his tone as he looked at Jaskier’s mulish expression. “I appreciate the concern, but Foglets are dangerous, and I can’t afford to stop and question whether the movement in the fog is friend or foe.” The thought of striking Jaskier, even unwittingly, made Geralt’s blood run cold. 

Some of that imagined horror must have shown on his face, because Jaskier gave in, accepting the logic offered. “All right, but I’ll have bandages and food waiting for you when you get back. I don’t think there’s a bath here, but I’ll heat some water for washing.” 

Geralt offered a small smile. The thought of a warm return bolstering his courage. It was a dangerous thing to rely upon, but Jaskier had proved a constant all these years, and Geralt was finally starting to believe he might stay, might continue to offer Geralt his exceptional care and companionship. “Might need some White Honey too, for the toxicity.” He said, “it’s the white bottle in my bag.” 

Jaskier blinked up at him, startled that Geralt would offer him access to his potion stores. He never had before, and the directive was a display of trust. A smile bloomed across Jaskier’s face. “I’ll have it ready for you.” 

Geralt nodded, offering Jaskier one more small smile before heading off down toward the swamp, the mid-afternoon sun lighting his way. 

* * *

Geralt stood knee deep in muddy swamp water, sword raised in a defensive hold as he strained his eyes, scanning the deep fog for any signs of movement. The bodies of six Foglets already littered the ground, but he had tracked at least three more in the dense, unnatural fog surrounding him. Adrenaline thrummed through him, muscles poised to explode at the slightest sign of movement. Blood dripped from a deep cut on his shoulder where a Foglet’s claw had made it past his defenses. He’d been fighting for hours, chasing the Foglets around the vast swamp, pushing them hard to force them to retreat to their nest so he could find it and destroy it. 

As dusk fell, visibility dropped and Geralt quickly tossed back the Cat potion with his free hand. Adding that to the Swallow and Thunderbolt already in his system sent a painful wave of nausea through him as his blood toxicity reached dangerous levels. His eyes flooded black, skin paling as the delicate veins under his eyes darkened, clearly visible through his near-transparent skin. The pale skin came as a result of his body concentrating blood on his heart and liver, keeping him alive at the expense of his extremities and causing a head rush that would be fatal unless Geralt could keep himself under control. Geralt’s head swam briefly, sword tip wavering, before his training kicked in, his body sublimating the pain and the vertigo to steady his sword arm and sharpen his concentration. 

Cat allowed him to see through the dark as if it were high noon, pupils blown out to capture as much light as possible. This heightened sensitivity made the Foglets’ bursts of light stand out like a beacon through the thick fog. 

Geralt caught sight of a burst of light on his right side and spun, sword raised to parry the Foglet’s long, sharp claw, feet planted firmly beneath him. He caught the Foglet’s claw on his silver blade, rocking back in his stance to absorb the force of the blow before lunging forward, throwing the Foglet to the ground and stabbing his silver sword through its heart. 

Another burst of light appeared on his left, too close for him to raise his sword in time, but Geralt ducked under the swipe and rolled away, pulling his sword with him, jumping back to his feet just in time to spin out of the way of the Foglet’s follow up charge, dealing a fatal blow to the Foglet’s back as it flashed past him. 

Swamp water streaming into his eyes, head spinning from the toxins and the acrobatic moves, he took a harsh breath in and out, forcing his muscles to still and he waited, straining all his senses for the third, and hopefully final, Foglet. They had stopped running, so the nest must be close. 

He heard a chatter behind him, whirling around just as a Foglet’s false double bashed into him, throwing him off balance. Knowing the real Foglet would be nearby, he cast the sign of Quen as he stumbled back. Before he could regain his footing, the real Foglet struck, claws slashing across Geralt’s exposed back. The Quen shield protected Geralt from most of the damage, exploding outward and throwing the Foglet back. Geralt gasped for breath, the wind knocked out of him. He heard a splash to his left and quickly cast the sign of Aard, hoping his aim would be true. 

The Foglet screeched as it was knocked back into a tree, propelled by the powerful blast. Geralt forced himself to lunge forward, breathless still, and thrust his sword into the Foglet’s heart, pinning it to the tree. The double disappeared. 

Geralt panted, leaning on his sword, swamp water and blood dripping into his blown-out eyes. His muscles ached. His head swam. His blood burned in his veins. With sheer will, Geralt straightened, pulling his sword back out of the Foglet and the tree with a push from his foot on the trunk. The thought that he’d have to sharpen his sword later flitted through his mind. 

Geralt strained his ears and eyes into the fog, searching for any sign of additional Foglets. After several long moments of silence and stillness, Geralt relaxed his stance, sheathing his sword. He pulled out his dagger and set to work harvesting the Foglet corpses. With the valuable parts safely retrieved, Geralt pulled his steel sword (no need to risk further damage to the valuable silver blade) and swiftly decapitated the corpses, stuffing the heads into the thin sack he’d brought with him. Harvest completed, he picked up the sack and moved to the next task. 

With the death of the last Foglet, the unnatural fog had slowly dissipated. With his eyes enhanced by Cat, Geralt could easily see through the darkness to the Foglet’s nest. Hefting a small bomb, he strode toward the nest, lobbing the bomb into its center from a safe distance. After the bomb discharged, sending wooden shrapnel and dank swamp water through the air, coating Geralt yet again, he carefully inspected the site to ensure no piece remained that might host another Foglet. 

Satisfied, he hefted the bag of heads and began the slow trek back to the Alderman. Fortunately, despite all the running about in the swamp, the nest wasn’t far from the village. Geralt knew the walk wouldn’t take long, barely half an hour, but he felt as if he were wading through thick molasses, exhaustion weighing him down even as the potions burning through him caused his limbs to shake with the need to move. Geralt’s eyes ached and his head felt disconnected from his body, blood still concentrated in his overworked liver and heart as his body attempted to process the toxic potions. His left shoulder burned from the deep cut, blood coating his armor. He desired nothing more than to collapse on the ground and sleep. 

But he was used to ignoring his body’s demands and continued to place one foot in front of the other, hoping the deathly pallor and black veins would ease before he returned to the village. The Alderman had been uncommonly amenable to his presence, but showing up looking as monstrous as he did now would surely put an end to that. 

Geralt thought of Jaskier waiting for him as he trudged along, warm dinner and clean bandages at the ready. It was enough to invigorate him and he stood a bit straighter, stride lengthening as he caught sight of the village gate. 

Seeking to avoid causing alarm, Geralt waded through the swamp and entered the village by hopping over the Alderman’s back garden gate. Dropping the heads well away from the house, he rubbed at his face to remove the worst of the blood, and knocked on the back door. 

As the door opened, Geralt braced himself for the usual shock and vitriol his post-battle appearance caused, knowing he looked no better than the Foglets with his black eyes and white skin, soaked in blood, viscera, and swamp water, but the Alderman again surprised him. 

The Alderman smiled broadly, no hint of hesitation in his face. “Welcome back, Master Geralt!” He said warmly. “Are you well?” 

Geralt averted his eyes from the bright lights behind the Alderman, pupils still too blown out from the Cat to tolerate anything but darkness. He said gruffly, to the wall. “The hunt is complete. It was a Foglet nest. I eliminated it.” He gestured to the sack. “The heads are there as proof.” 

The Alderman must have realized Geralt’s discomfort, because he stepped forward, closing the door behind him and leaving them in darkness. Geralt quickly yielded, stepping back to give him room. He didn’t understand the odd, tight expression on the Alderman’s face when he did that. It almost seemed sad, but that couldn’t be right. His head ached too much to give it any more thought. 

“You’re a treasure, Master Geralt. Thank you for saving our vilage.” The Alderman said, bowing deeply to Geralt again. 

Geralt had no idea how to react, so he didn’t. 

The Alderman straightened and smiled, holding out a bag heavy with coin. “Your coin, Master Geralt, plus a little extra from the village fund to express our gratitude.” 

Geralt took the bag, tucking it away. Still looking down, he thanked the Alderman, unsure how to react to his generosity or his kindness. It made him vaguely uncomfortable, but he didn’t know why. 

Geralt nodded to the Alderman before turning back toward the back fence. 

“Be safe, Master Geralt, and go with our thanks.” The Alderman called after him. 

Geralt looked briefly back over his shoulder, blackened eyes pits in the darkness, before raising a hand in acknowledgment and hopping over the fence. 

* * *

It was full dark by the time Geralt returned to the small hut. Exhaustion made his legs shake beneath him as he climbed up to the door. His head pounded, any speck of light sending a sharp pain shooting through his eyes. The toxins in his blood caused fever to burn through him. It took an extraordinary exercise of will to keep his spent body moving. 

Jaskier must have been watching out for him, because the door opened before he could touch the handle, and Jaskier was immediately there to support him, slinging Geralt’s uninjured right arm over his shoulders. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut against the firelight in the room, dim as it was, and trusted Jaskier to lead him. 

Jaskier led him to the corner by the roaring hearth where a basin of steaming water was waiting, delicately scented with chamomile oil. Jaskier pressed gently on Geralt’s hale right shoulder, urging him to sit on the small stool he’d set out. 

As soon as Geralt was settled, Jaskier pressed the vial of White Honey into his hand, knowing that the black veins he could see under Geralt’s closed eyes meant his toxicity level needed to be brought down as soon as possible. Geralt took the vial and swallowed down without even looking at it. Despite his concern for Geralt’s state, the trust inherent in that gesture warmed Jaskier through. 

Geralt grit his teeth as the potion hit his stomach, curling in on himself with a breathy whine as the White Honey seared through his veins, neutralizing the Cat, Swallow, and Thunderbolt with brutal efficiency. Just as rapidly as it came on, the searing pain stopped, and Geralt gasped at the abrupt change. His awareness narrowed to a point and an intense feeling of vertigo overcame him as he clung desperately to consciousness. 

His heart raced in his chest, breaths coming in labored pants, as he slowly came back to awareness of his surroundings, breathing in the comforting scent of rosin and honey emanating from Jaskier’s shoulder where it supported his aching head. Jaskier’s strong hands rubbed gently down Geralt’s back as he shook through the comedown off the toxic high. 

Even a year ago he would have pulled away at this point, ashamed to need the support, but Jaskier had worn down his resistance with his steadfast companionship. Geralt let out a sigh and relaxed into Jaskier’s hold. Jaskier would decide to leave him one day, everyone did, if they ever stayed at all, but Geralt would allow himself this indulgence of care until that day came. 

They sat together for several long moments, Geralt’s breathing and heart rate returning to normal as Jaskier supported him. When Jaskier felt Geralt relax completely, he sat back, keeping one hand on Geralt’s knee, and reached for the warm basin. He dipped a soft cloth in the warm, scented water and carefully rubbed the blood, viscera, and swamp water from Geralt’s face and neck. The water was black by the time he finished. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier prodded, “are you all right if I go refill the basin?” 

Geralt nodded, reaching up to unbuckle his armor. 

“All right, but call me the moment you need something. And keep those eyes closed! I can’t smother the fire until I’ve finished with the water, so we’ll have to work around it until we can make it dark enough for you in here.” Jaskier instructed firmly before heading out to dump and refill the basin. 

Geralt’s hands were frozen on his armor. He hadn’t realized Jaskier had taken notice of how long it took for his eyes to return to normal after he used Cat. Usually, after White Honey got rid of the worst of it, he’d just push through the pain until his pupils started to adjust properly to the light again. 

He shook himself and went back to his task. Jaskier’s thoughtfulness would never cease surprising him both in its breadth and in its application to one such as him. 

Having completely removed his armor, laying it out by feel away from the fire, Geralt chanced opening his eyes briefly to examine the damage done to it by the water and the fight. Squinting against the light, he mentally catalogued the repairs and maintenance he’d need to complete before the armor was ready to use again. As he looked, the pounding in his head increased steadily until the intensity made him sway where he sat as nausea flooded him again. 

Jaskier walked in just as Geralt slammed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands to them in an attempt to ease the agony. 

“Geralt!” He said, concern sharpening his tone. He quickly placed the refilled basin over the fire and grabbed a clean cloth. Gently pulling Geralt’s hands away from his face, he tied the cloth firmly around Geralt’s eyes, blocking all light. Jaskier smoothed the cloth with his hands and pressed a gentle kiss over the fabric. 

“Let me be your eyes for now, dear one.” He said, tone as gentle as it was commanding. Geralt startled at the kiss, covered eyes following Jaskier by sound. No one had ever done that before. Whores would never kiss him, they would barely consent to lay with him even for the premium he paid, and the few experiences he’d had where coin had not been required had been quick and impersonal. It seemed there was no end to Jaskier’s undeserved benedictions. 

“I can hear you thinking, Geralt.” Jaskier said wryly. “Tell me what about while I look at the mess you made of your shoulder.” 

Geralt wordlessly pulled his bloodied and torn tunic over his head, dropping to the side of the stool to wash and mend later. He sat quietly while Jaskier wiped the blood and gore off his chest, paying careful attention to the wound on his left shoulder, working away while he waited patiently for Geralt to gather his thoughts. 

Once Geralt’s chest was clean and the shoulder wound carefully flushed out, Jaskier rummaged through the pack containing their medical supplies, pulled out a soothing poultice and wrapped it around Geralt’s shoulder. The wound, while painful, was not terribly deep and thankfully did not require stiches. With a Witcher’s metabolism and healing power, it would be mere scar by the end of the next day. Satisfied that the wound would heal well without further intervention, Jaskier began wiping down Geralt’s hair, pulling out the worst of the detritus and blood. 

“You’ll need a real bath, or at least a stream, to get this totally clean, but I’ll do my best.” Jaskier said as he worked. 

While Jaskier worked on his hair, Geralt pulled off his sodden boots and pants, leaving himself only in his small clothes, and held out a hand for a cloth. One was immediately provided, and he started wiping down his legs and feet. It felt hopelessly indulgent to have Jaskier help him like this, but Geralt was starting to believe, just a little, that Jaskier did not see helping him as a burden. 

When he felt he’d gotten off the bulk of the swamp water and blood, he dropped the soiled cloth on top of his tunic and pants for washing. He took a fortifying breath, choosing his words carefully. “You always care for me so gently,” he said, sounding almost lost. “Why?” 

Jaskier’s hands stilled in Geralt’s hair before pulling away. For a brief, terrible moment, Geralt felt as if he’d said exactly the wrong thing, exactly the thing that would finally wake him from this dream and send Jaskier running away. His breath stilled in his chest as cold pain gripped him. 

He must have made some unwitting noise of distress, because Jaskier was there immediately to soothe him, embracing him from behind and nuzzling into the nape of his neck, mindless of the filth that still clung to him. 

“My dearest friend, after all these years, you must know that you are the most important person in my life and that my greatest pleasure is to see you cared for and happy.” Jaskier tightened his embrace, pulling himself flush with Geralt’s broad back. “I want nothing more than to show you how much I care for you, and I hope one day you’ll believe it.” 

Geralt raised his arms and covered Jaskier’s as much as he could, given the angle of the embrace, squeezing his hands on Jaskier’s bare forearms. He opened his mouth to speak, lost his words, and fell silent. He felt Jaskier’s warmth against his back, his hot breath against his neck, and felt safe in a way he’d never felt before. His voice unlocking, he said, “I’m starting to.” 

He felt Jaskier’s smile and his embrace tightened once more. Jaskier placed a fleeting kiss to the side of Geralt’s neck before stepping back and returning to his task, careful not to jostle the cloth protecting Geralt’s eyes as he worked the battle’s detritus out of Geralt’s hair. 

The silence between them was soft and comfortable, and Geralt felt himself drifting. After a long moment, the silence was broken suddenly by a loud boom from the direction of the lake. Geralt startled badly, thrown out of his peaceful doze, and jumped to his feet, eyes darting behind the blindfold as he sought the source of the unnatural noise. 

Jaskier ran to the door and thrust it open, peering into the night. Another boom and Geralt spun toward the source of the noise, a snarl rising in his throat. He was startled out of his battle stance when Jaskier laughed with unrestrained delight. 

“A fire and light show!” He said, smile evident in his voice. “They meant fireworks!” 

Geralt relaxed immediately. He’d never seen fireworks before, just heard of the new invention in passing, but if Jaskier was unconcerned, then he was unconcerned. He felt around the packs for his own, pulling out a fresh tunic and pants and putting them on before joining Jaskier at the door. 

He peered out into the night, seeing nothing through the blindfold, but he listened to the booms and Jaskier’s exclamations of joy and wonder. Geralt wanted to resume their closeness from before, but wasn’t certain he would be allowed. He swallowed hard and gathered his courage. Not even daring to breathe, he gently placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders from behind, moving to embrace him completely when Jaskier let out a happy sigh at the contact. When Jaskier leaned back into him, Geralt let out a sigh of relief, relaxing into the contact and resting his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Jaskier huffed a laugh at his big sigh and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s temple. “I enjoy your touch, dear one, no need to be nervous.” 

“But you’ve never done that before.” Geralt said, meaning the embrace, a note of awed confusion in his voice, like he’d been given a great treat he couldn’t possibly deserve. 

Jaskier knew that a heavy discussion would be too much for Geralt, who struggled to express himself at the best of times. Asking him to have an emotional talk while exhausted and hurting would be unfair. Besides, his actions spoke louder than he ever could. 

Jaskier kept his tone purposefully light and affectionate. “Then we’ll simply have to make up for lost time.” 

Geralt hummed and fell silent. He didn’t understand why Jaskier would want to touch him, let alone want any sort of physical affection from him. Geralt had no prior experience with gentle, affectionate touch to guide him, but if he mirrored Jaskier’s gestures and stayed within those boundaries, he thought it might be all right to try and reciprocate what Jaskier offered. He’d matched Jaskier’s embrace from moments before and that had been well received. Maybe he didn’t need to understand it. Maybe he could just follow Jaskier’s lead and enjoy whatever Jaskier was willing to give. He still felt a pull in his gut telling him it was selfish, it was improper, that there was no way Jaskier truly wanted to care for him, much less touch him, but years of Jaskier’s steady affection had muffled that pull. 

As he stood quietly, listening to the booms of the fireworks and Jaskier’s delighted reactions, he decided to chance one more request. “Will you describe them for me?” He asked quietly. 

Jaskier beamed, leaning his head into Geralt’s and letting him feel the smile that lit up his face at the simple request. “It would be my pleasure.” 

And so, they stood there in the doorway of the simple hut, Jaskier held in Geralt’s warm embrace, Geralt’s chin tucked over Jaskier’s shoulder, listening as Jaskier described the colors that burst and danced across the sky. 

Warmth filled Geralt’s chest and this time he was certain it was joy. 


	5. Touch - Early Spring, Year 1254

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of hunger and associated weight loss caused by food scarcity; non-consensual touching (not sexual and NOT between Geralt and Jaskier); Geralt's headspace

This year, after spending the winter apart, Jaskier and Geralt reunited in Novigrad. Jaskier had received a lucrative offer from the family of one of his schoolmates from Oxenfurt to be the noble family’s bard in residence for the winter season – no doubt prompted by Jaskier’s recent win at the Bardic Continental Championships – so Geralt had returned to spend the winter as usual with his fellow witchers in Kaer Morhen. 

After the long, dark winter had finally started to lift and the snow cleared from the mountain pass, Geralt had set out from Kaer Morhen to make the several weeks long trek across the Continent to Novigrad with Roach, clearing up minor contracts along the way. The winter past had been a long and hard one, bitter cold and heavy snows resulted in a lean spring, with many plants and animals having failed to survive the winter. It would be a difficult growing season and villages would face a run of hungry weeks before the spring crops flourished.

When such conditions struck, merchants and innkeepers were unwilling to share their food stocks with a Witcher, preferring to keep the valuable goods for “good human folk”, as one particularly outspoken merchant had put it. Geralt was used to such a reaction and had packed as much as he could carry to tide himself over until he reached Novigrad. Strips of jerky, dried fruits, and hard biscuits from Kaer Morhen’s stores shared limited saddle bag space with Roach’s oats on his ride out from the old keep, but he could only carry enough for half the journey – less if he failed to strictly ration himself – so he alternated hunting with eating from his stores. 

With harsh spring conditions following a bitter winter, hunting days often ended as fasting days, and Geralt quickly turned from lean to thin, what little fat he carried burning away to keep his body moving. He wouldn’t die from the lack, witchers could survive long periods of total deprivation, but he was looking forward to the fresh, warm meals he would share with Jaskier in Novigrad before they set out on the Path once more. Perhaps they could spend the next winter together again in Oxenfurt. Geralt could never abandon his Path, but Jaskier had shown him that little breaks, little indulgences, could brighten his existence without threatening his purpose. Geralt’s heart warmed and a small, private smile crossed his face as he thought of his friend, fond memories lending eager anticipation his journey.

Geralt reached Novigrad on a blustery, overcast day, soaked through and covered in mud from the heavy rains that had followed him the past several leagues. The sea breeze was bracing and flocks of gulls screamed overhead. All around the large, walled city, hardy, coastal plants were just starting to come into bud and leaf as the days warmed from winter’s chill.

Jaskier must have paid the guard to watch out for him because he met Geralt at the gate, dressed warmly in a thick, woolen cloak and doublet, winter breeches and boots all new and of the highest quality. 

Jaskier beamed when Geralt approached, embracing him firmly, headless of the mud and water soaking into his fine clothes. Geralt breathed in Jaskier’s scent, rosin and honey immediately soothing, and returned the quick embrace before following Jaskier deep into the wealthiest part of the city.

Jaskier had spent the winter with the family of his dear friend, Lady Annabelle de Rottermund, the daughter of Countess Rottermund, a wealthy, noble lady who had settled in Novigrad after the death of her dearly departed husband to be closer to the arts. She was a patron of all the bardic students at nearby Oxenfurt, ensuring the instruments, instructors, and facilities remained top-notch, and was known to employ a special favorite bard or two to provide entertainment for her winter social gatherings and elaborate balls. 

Jaskier told Geralt about his season as they walked through the cobbled streets, sun just starting to peek through the heavy clouds, the sound of Roach’s hooves echoing off the surrounding buildings. He told Geralt about the thrill of performing for a large, appreciative crowd, about the many long discussions he’d had with Countess Rottermund about the history of the bardic arts, and about the slow, quiet hours he had spent composing and practicing, improving his craft day by day. 

As they approached the large townhouse occupied by the Countess Rottermund, its large, stone façade taking up an entire city block and climbing up four, glided stories, Jaskier spoke of long nights, of endless days spent looking out the window, restless for adventure. Just before they entered the yard, halting Geralt with a soft hand on his elbow, Jaskier told him about how often he thought of Geralt and how glad he was they were reunited. Geralt was so touched by the words that he didn’t know how to respond, so he let his instincts dictate, touching his forehead to Jaskier’s and closing his eyes for a moment, feeling Jaskier’s warmth against him. As usual, in Jaskier’s remarkable way, he understood.

With a broad smile, Jaskier took Geralt’s arm and led him through the large, wrought iron gate, nodding to the guard as he passed. He showed Geralt the stable he’d chosen for Roach, a spacious corner stall with thick, sweet smelling straw, and introduced the young stable hand. After leaving strict instructions, and watching to see if the boy was competent, Geralt was satisfied and left Roach to be pampered, following Jaskier up into the house. 

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier not only led him in through the front door, rather than the servant’s back entrance, but up to a large guestroom on the main floor of the home. Geralt was conscious of each speck of mud he left on the carpets, of each drop of rainwater he left in his wake, and felt his shoulders tensing, waiting for a manicured footman to jump out at him in a rage. He slunk behind Jaskier like an old hunting dog who knew he was breaking the rules, trying to make himself as small as possible in the grand space. 

Jaskier, of course, was comfortable as anything, striding confidently through the finely appointed halls and greeting each servant as they passed. _This is the life he deserves_ , Geralt thought, _comfortable, safe, warm, nothing like the Path._ But he knew by now that this life was not what Jaskier wanted. For some inexplicable reason, Jaskier preferred jerky and campfires with Geralt to all the trappings of noble life. After all their years together, Geralt accepted that Jaskier’s choice was made, but he didn’t think he would ever fully understand it.

Jaskier finally stopped, pushing open a richly carved wooden door and leading Geralt inside the well-appointed bedchamber. There was no question that they would share, as was their wont. An enormous, four-poster bed dominated the space, draped in thick, soft furs. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, chasing away the chill, and carpets and tapestries ensured no speck of stone was exposed that might chill an unwary occupant. Off to the side of the room was a separate bathing chamber, an unimaginable luxury, with a deep, soaking tub cut into the floor, steam rising from the surface of the water. 

Jaskier smiled as he saw Geralt’s attention latch onto the bath. “I knew you’d like that,” he said. “I had them draw it for you before I left to pick you up.”

Geralt hummed in appreciation, dropping his dirty pack carefully to the side of the hearth, far enough away from the flames to be safe, but still on the flagstones and well away from the fine rugs.

Jaskier continued as Geralt peeled off his boots and armor, carefully placing each piece by his wet pack to clean and dry later. “Countess Rottermund wants us to attend her for dinner. She recently acquired a large plot of land about thirty leagues up the coast and wants to update her bestiary and determine the best possible monster deterrents to keep her new vassals safe. If you’re amenable, I believe she wants you to visit the site and help oversee implementing the protections and training the village overseers.”

“Hmm, sounds like a long job.” Geralt said, stripping off his soaked tunic and leggings, heading toward the bathing chamber in only his smalls. 

“A couple months at least, I would think.” Jaskier agreed. “But Countess Rottermund pays well and it could help save the villagers from running afoul of the local monsters. I’m sure she’ll tell you everything at dinner.”

Jaskier watched as Geralt settled himself in the bath, averting his eyes as he removed his smalls before stepping into the steaming water. 

A knock suddenly sounded. Geralt started, eyes focusing on the outer door, which was just visible from the tub, but remaining relaxed for now. He was safe in Jaskier’s chambers and would only become concerned if Jaskier showed any sign of upset. Geralt watched as Jaskier opened the outer door, speaking to a man on the other side, before he stepped back and allowed the man in. The new arrival was accompanied by two young maidservants. Jaskier looked mildly annoyed, but not worried, so Geralt sat back in the steaming water, waiting to see what unfolded.

Jaskier led the man and the two maidservants over to the bathing chamber, gesturing for them to wait at the door while he knelt next to Geralt where he sat in the bath, feet level with Geralt’s shoulders because of how the bath was cut into the floor. 

“Geralt, Countess Rottermund sent her under-butler and two maid servants to help you bathe and dress for dinner. I know it’s a bit heavy handed, but they’re trustworthy and it’s well meant. Are you all right with them helping you?”

Geralt studied the three newcomers in the doorway. They showed no signs of aggression or disgust, simply waited patiently with a blank expression as all good servants were trained to do. If Jaskier believed them trustworthy, then Geralt would trust his judgment. He nodded.

Jaskier smiled down at him. “All right then.” He motioned to the others to get started. “Enjoy your pampering!” Jaskier clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and retreated into the bedchamber, closing the inner door behind him to keep the bathing chamber warm. Geralt heard him settle onto the lounge by the fire, pulling out a book and flipping through it before starting to read.

The under-butler, a portly man in his late middle age, bowed slightly to Geralt. “Master Witcher, I am Boris and these two maids are Agnes and Catherine.” He said, gesturing to each young woman in turn. “We are here to help you bathe and dress for the dinner with Countess Rottermund tonight.”

Boris rolled up his sleeves and lined the edge of the bath with towels while the two maids prepared bath oils, brushes, sponges, and scrubs. The scent of the various products merged together, strong enough individually, but together they gave Geralt a slight headache. He ignored it. It wouldn’t do to offend Jaskier’s patron over something so insignificant as bathing products.

Geralt ducked down under the water, wetting his hair thoroughly. He hadn’t had a bath since leaving Kaer Morhen, and the dirt, monster blood, and body oil left his hair a dull, knotted mass. It would take some serious work to make it presentable. Under the water, he scraped his fingers through his thick, white hair, dragging his long nails across his scalp to try and loosen the matting.

When he surfaced, Boris was behind him, a large bar of oil soap in his hand. Soap was uncommon given its expense, so the Countess was clearly invested in making sure Geralt was as clean as possible before meeting him. Geralt started to see Boris looming in his blind spot, but quickly suppressed it, turning and reaching out a hand for the soap. 

Boris pulled it back. “No, no,” he said. He knelt behind Geralt, soap in hand, and gestured for him to face forward. “I am here to assist with your bathing.”

Geralt glared up at him. “I can bathe myself.”

Boris placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and spun him around. Geralt flinched at the contact, but allowed Boris to move him, unwilling to risk hurting him or appearing aggressive. Boris dumped a small basin of water over Geralt’s head and followed it immediately with the bar of oil soap, scrubbing it into Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt sat forward and away from Boris’s ministrations. “Stop it!” He said sharply, unable to keep the growl from his voice. “I can bathe myself!”

Boris frowned at him, looking down at him much as he would at a dog who peed on the Countess’s carpet. “This resistance is most unbecoming, Master Witcher. Countess Rottermund instructed us to assist with your bathing and dressing to ensure you were presentable. We will not allow this behavior to interfere with the performance of our duties!” His voice sharped toward the end, frustration and distaste breaking through his professional demeanor.

Agnes whispered to Catherine behind the stack of towels she was holding, assuming Geralt couldn’t hear them. “Given the state of him, I wonder if he’s ever had a bath!” Geralt could hear Catherine giggle in response. 

Geralt turned his glare on Agnes, making it clear he heard every word. She gave him an insincere nod of apology.

With Geralt’s attention on Agnes, Boris again grabbed his shoulder from behind, pulling him back to sit against the back of the tub. Geralt flinched at the contact, but again allowed it. Boris was a human, and a servant of Jaskier’s patron, and Geralt couldn’t risk resisting and being cast as an aggressor.

Geralt clenched his teeth until his jaw cramped, but forced himself to stay still as Boris resumed his work soaping up Geralt’s hair. Boris’s frustration with Geralt was clear in the rough way he scrubbed the soap in to the matted locks. As he worked, he looked up toward the maids, gesturing at them with a flick of his double chin.

Agnes and Caroline immediately complied, leaving the fresh towels to the side of the chamber and coming to kneel by the edge of in-ground tub, one on each side of Geralt. They rolled up their sleeves and, with clear looks of distaste, each reached into the tub and grabbed one of Geralt’s legs, lifting them up onto the edge of the tub.

Geralt fought the urge to pull away, fists clenching under the water. “What are you doing now?” Geralt ground out, careful to keep his voice calm, quiet, _unintimidating_.

Caroline looked down at him, a haughty look on her thin face as she scooped some strongly-scented sea salt scrub onto a foot brush. “Helping you bathe, of course, Master Witcher.”

Agnes nodded, mirroring her compatriot’s actions. “You’ve been travelling so long and in such dirty conditions that we must help you clean up properly before you’re fit to see the Countess.”

Agnes and Caroline started in on his legs and feet, scrubbing at them with the brushes as if he were a cooking pot with caked on food. The rough bristles caught in his leg hair and the sea salt stung the small scrapes left by the hard brushes. They took no care to avoid the small, healing wounds littering his legs either. It took every scrap of control Geralt had to avoid kicking them off.

As the maids scoured Geralt’s legs, Boris continued his assault on Geralt’s head, pressing the oil soap hard into Geralt’s hair as his fingernails scraped along Geralt’s scalp, catching his sensitive ears with each pass. 

Geralt felt trapped. With the way the tub was set into the floor, the three servants loomed over him, a maid on each side and Boris’s large bulk behind him, setting his hackles on edge. They scrubbed, scraped, and pulled at him, and Geralt felt himself starting to panic. 

“Stop it!” He demanded. “I don’t need your help!”

Boris pulled hard on his ear, pinching it like he would an unruly child, servant’s blank breaking and letting his disgust of Geralt come through in his tone. “Enough of that! You may be satisfied living like an animal, but we will not subject our Lady to your filth!” Agnes and Caroline tittered, sneering down at Geralt.

Geralt’s heart rate rapidly elevated, his pupils narrowing as his adrenaline soared. It was too much; it was all too much. He was exhausted and hungry, unused to human touch or contact after his winter away and his long journey alone. He couldn’t fight back, couldn’t physically resist and risk hurting them, so he was trapped in the tub, under and beneath antagonists who forced their rough touches upon him in the name of following orders. 

He’d asked them to stop, demanded that they stop, and yet they refused. To leave the tub, he would need to physically move at least one of the servants. The risk of that was unacceptable. 

His vision tunneled, body taut with tension. The servants continued their unwanted ministrations, uncaring of his distress or of his clearly stated lack of consent to their touch, pleased that he finally ceased moving.

_Tell me before it becomes too much_. The memory of Jaskier’s voice cut through Geralt’s rising panic. He drew a breath and called out before he lost his words.

“Jaskier!”

His panic must have been evident in his tone because he heard Jaskier’s book fall to the floor as his footsteps raced across the chamber outside. Jaskier flung open the door to the bathing chamber, taking in the scene. Geralt was surrounded on all sides, Boris behind him with his hands in Geralt’s hair, Agnes and Caroline on the edges, each scrubbing roughly at one of Geralt’s legs with a brush. 

Geralt’s eyes were wide and wild, his pupils pinpricks. He looked up as Jaskier entered, deep lines of tension cutting across his face, begging Jaskier for help without words.

Jaskier felt a calm rage settle over him. “Leave us.” He commanded, looking every inch the Viscount he was, voice demanding obedience.

Boris stood immediately, bowing to Jaskier. “My Lord, we have orders to ensure Master Witcher is prepared for the dinner with Countess Rottermund tonight.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed, managing to look down his nose at Boris despite the portly man having nearly half a head on him in height. “Do you doubt my ability to prepare Master _Geralt_ properly?” He demanded, emphasizing Boris’s failure to afford Geralt the respect of calling him by name.

Boris swallowed hard, his smile gaining an obsequious edge. “Of course not, my Lord.”

“Then go.” Jaskier ordered, stepping away from the door in clear command.

Boris bowed, gesturing for the maids to obey Jaskier’s command. “Yes, my Lord. We’ll ring the dinner gong after the seventh bell.”

Jaskier nodded, watching all three leave, bowing or curtsying to him as they passed. After they’d cleared the room, Jaskier shut the outer door, locking it behind him before returning to the bathing chamber and closing that door as well. Geralt stared up at him as if he were a savior, tension melting from his frame. Geralt heaved a sigh and settled back into the steaming water, drawing his legs back into the tub, sinking down until the water reached his chin, white hair fanning around his neck.

Jaskier lay down next to the tub, eye level with Geralt, chin resting on his crossed arms, headless of the water soaking into his fine woolen clothes. 

“What happened?” He asked gently.

“They wouldn’t stop.” Geralt said, his eyes regaining a hunted edge. “They just kept touching me, scrubbing me.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together. He had expected better of the Countess’s servants. “And none too gently from what I saw.” Jaskier said. “I’m so sorry about this, Geralt. I wanted you to have a nice, relaxing bath after your journey.”

Geralt sighed, looking down at the water before catching Jaskier’s remorseful gaze. “I still can, I think.” He offered a small smile, quirking an eyebrow. “Will you help?”

Jaskier smiled, eyes softening. “Of course, whatever you need.”

Geralt gestured up at his hair. “I can take care of the rest, but I need help with this mess.”

Jaskier chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “You never do take proper care of your hair.”

Geralt scowled in mock annoyance. “Well, I’ll be sure to carry a bath with me next time I travel.” His lips twitched around a smile.

Jaskier laughed out right, poking Geralt’s shoulder. “You’re impossible,” he said, indescribably fond. He sat up, removed his boots, and carefully rolled up his breeches. “Is it all right if I sit behind you?” He asked, tone carefully neutral.

Geralt looked up at him, trust apparent in his open gaze. “You’re the only one I trust at my back.”

Jaskier smiled, warmth filling his chest. Geralt showed him all the time how much he trusted Jaskier, but it was unusual for him to say it so bluntly. 

“All right then, lean forward a moment.” Jaskier instructed, positioning himself behind Geralt, one bare leg in the bathwater on either side of him. Once he was settled, he placed a gentle hand on each of Geralt’s shoulders, guiding him back to rest between Jaskier’s spread legs. 

Geralt shifted slightly before settling, letting out a sigh of contentment. 

“All right?” Jaskier asked, picking up the discarded oil soap.

“Hmm.” Geralt nodded.

Jaskier inspected Geralt’s hair, seeing the matting near the scalp and the small flecks of detritus throughout. Satisfied it wasn’t a lost cause, he worked up a lather from the soap by rubbing it between his hands before setting the bar aside and applying the foam to Geralt’s hair, rubbing it in with long, gentle, circular strokes. Geralt let out a hum that was practically a purr, melting back into the edge of the tub between Jaskier’s legs and closing his eyes.

Jaskier hummed a light tune as he worked the soap through Geralt’s hair, carefully picking out bits of detritus. When he was satisfied, he filled the small rinse basin from the tap used to fill the tub, and tilted Geralt’s head back to rinse the soap out of his hair. Geralt’s eyes stayed closed, his face relaxed. If it was Jaskier behind him, then there was nothing to worry about. Jaskier’s touch was both tolerable and welcome, soothing a part of Geralt that had lain dormant since his childhood.

With the soap rinsed clean, Jaskier uncapped the bottles of oil one by one, sniffing each before settling on a bottle of lightly scented lavender oil, hoping the calming scent would help ease any remaining tension from Geralt’s unfortunate experience with Countess Rottermund’s servants. 

He poured a generous amount of oil into his hands before carefully working it into Geralt’s hair, finger combing out the tangles and patiently working through the matted sections. Geralt thought he might melt. Or fall asleep. Jaskier had helped him bathe before, whether because of injury or because the grime in his hair required it, but there was something different about this time. Something was shifting in the air between them, something that had changed with the embrace they shared back at the Alderman’s hut in Lindenvale the summer before. 

As Jaskier worked the last tangles out of his long, white hair, Geralt leaned over, nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s clothed thigh. Jaskier’s hands stilled for the briefest moment before continuing to work, moving from Geralt’s clean hair down to massage the knots out of Geralt’s neck and shoulders. Geralt let out a sigh of contentment, relaxing completely into Jaskier and letting Jaskier take care of him.

As they heard the sixth bell ring out in the distance, Jaskier dropped a kiss on the crown of Geralt’s newly cleaned head. He reached for one of the towels, wiping the oil off his hands. “We have about an hour before dinner, so I’ll set out your clothes while you finish up, all right?” Jaskier waited for Geralt to nod and sit up before he pulled his legs out of the tub, drying them off before standing and heading back into the bedchamber. He left the door open behind him.

Geralt stretched his arms up, cracking his neck and rolling his newly loosened shoulders. He felt more relaxed than he could ever remember being, despite his earlier panic. It was as Jaskier had told him all these years, if he asked for help, Jaskier would willingly give it, and all would be well. He felt the slightest twinge of guilt at his indulgence, at allowing Jaskier to care for him, but he ignored it. Jaskier was his own man and he had shown Geralt time and time again that he wanted to take care of him and that he was pleased if Geralt allowed it. Geralt was even starting to believe that Jaskier enjoyed his affection and his touch, something Geralt had never dared to hope for in all his long life.

Geralt reached for a small towel, lathering it up with the oil soap and ignoring the rough scrubs and brushes, and washed himself thoroughly, scraping off the grime of his several weeks of travel that had been loosened by his long soak in the tub. Finally satisfied, he stood, pulling the plug to drain the tub, and rinsed himself carefully with the small rinse basin, letting the clean water wash away the last of the soap. 

He stepped up out of the tub and dried himself with the thick, clean towels before applying the lavender oil Jaskier had chosen all over his freshly cleaned skin. Warm, clean, and relaxed, he wrapped a fresh towel around his waist and joined Jaskier in the bedchamber. 

While Geralt had finished bathing, Jaskier had changed into formal dinner clothes, the cut of the fine silk doublet and breeches accentuating his figure and the deep blue color bringing out his eyes. Jaskier smiled at Geralt and gestured to the clothes he’d laid out on the bed.

“What do you think?” He asked. “I had the tailor make them up for you.” Jaskier had chosen a simple cut for the doublet and breeches, letting the quality of the thick, dark grey silk speak for itself. There was a subtle pattern across the doublet, embroidered in the same color as the piece itself, adding interest without being ostentatious. A pair of soft, black, knee high boots rested on the floor beside the bed.

Geralt hummed, pleased with the simplicity of the clothes but otherwise largely disinterested in the fashion. Jaskier didn’t take offense, he knew Geralt neither knew nor cared about fashion. His only goal had been to choose something comfortable and inoffensive. 

He frowned slightly as he studied Geralt’s thin frame, concerned about the drastic weight loss. Geralt caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. “It was a lean winter, Jaskier. I’ll gain it back in due time.”

Jaskier huffed. “I’m not worried about the look of you, I’m just concerned that you get enough to eat. Can’t have you fainting from hunger during a hunt!”

Geralt snorted, taking the good-natured teasing as intended. “I’m sure you’ll fatten me up again before we set out.” 

“Damn right I will!” Jaskier said, handing Geralt a fresh, silk chemise and smalls. “Go on now, get dressed before we’re late.”

Geralt shook his head fondly, but complied, pulling on the cool, soft underclothes and fine silken formalwear. The doublet and breeches hung a bit loose, but not enough to be sloppy, Jaskier having accounted for a certain amount of winter weight loss. The soft boots fit perfectly, molding to his feet and calves like old favorites.

Dressed, Geralt turned to Jaskier, spreading his hands in an unspoken request for Jaskier’s review of his appearance. Jaskier looked him up and down appreciatively. “You’ll do.” He said, smiling. “Now, come here and let me fix your hair.” He gestured to the chair by the fire. Geralt sat obediently, letting Jaskier smooth out his hair with a long-toothed comb, pulling it back from his face and tying it half-up as he preferred. 

The seventh bell rang out in the distance, followed almost immediately by the dinner gong. Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulders. “Ready?” He asked.

Geralt nodded, standing up and heading for the door. Jaskier stopped him with a gentle hand on his elbow before they exited the room. “Remember, if you need to leave for any reason, just tell me and we’ll leave.”

Geralt nodded. “I know you’ll take care of me.” He said simply, patting Jaskier’s hand where it rested on his elbow before opening the door for him. 

Jaskier blinked at him, surprised but pleased by the easy acceptance. A huge smile spread across his face as he led Geralt out the door, his hand remaining in the crook of Geralt’s arm.

* * *

It was near midnight by the time Jaskier and Geralt returned to their chambers. Countess Rottermund had set an elaborate table for their dinner, an intimate evening with just the four of them in attendance: Jaskier, Geralt, Countess Rottermund, and Lady Annabelle. The food had been superb and Geralt had eaten his fill, pleased to finally have the chance to fill his belly completely. 

While they ate, Lady Annabelle and Jaskier had entertained them with tales of their exploits at Oxenfurt and giving Geralt plenty of ammunition with which to tease Jaskier in the future. 

Unlike her servants, Countess Rottermund, though stern, was kind and treated Geralt with respect. He imagined the treatment was partly a result of her tolerant nature and partly a result of her clear and genuine affection for Jaskier. Whatever the cause, Geralt was relieved.

After they finished their meal, Countess Rottermund got down to business. Sipping a fine cordial, Countess Rottermund described the land and villages she had inherited on the northern coast above Novigrad. A distant uncle had died without an heir, and she was his closest blood relation. The Countess had never met her uncle and had never lived on a country estate, having grown up in Oxenfurt and then in Novigrad, and so was relying up her uncle’s old staff to run the holding. 

She had been up to her uncle’s manor to meet the men he employed to care for his land and vassals, and she was satisfied they were trustworthy, but all had spoken about monsters plaguing the villages they oversaw. All the villages suffered from drowners given their proximity to the coast, but one also had a wyvern problem, another lost livestock to endregas, and yet another was devastated by noonwraiths. When she had reviewed the beastiary the overseers used to help protect the villagers, she’d noticed it was nearly a century out of date. And, upon review of her uncle’s accounting book, she saw that the last recording of a witcher being hired in the holding was over six decades prior.

And so, she explained, when Jaskier informed her Geralt was coming to Novigrad, she’d asked him to set up a meeting. Her plan was simple, but would require several months of work. She proposed to hire Geralt to update her beastiary, to clear out the monsters currently plaguing the villages, and to help the villagers set up protections and practices to discourage new monsters from taking up residence in her holding. 

When Geralt had protested, saying that eliminating monsters forever was not possible, she made it clear that she understood monsters were an endemic problem, but that she wanted to give the villagesr in her newly acquired holding the best possible chance against them.

Ultimately, for a hefty sum that would last Geralt close to a year, paid half in advance, they settled on a plan. Geralt would clear out the drowners, endregas, noonwraiths, and wyvern currently in residence on his way north out of Novigrad for the season. Then, in the late autumn, he would return with Jaskier to her holdings, taking up winter residence in a small cottage by the coast in the center of her territory. Countess Rottermund would ensure the cottage was properly repaired and stocked before they arrived, and would arrange for one of her overseers to bring the beastiary to him, with ample parchment and ink for her edits and additions. Over the winter, Geralt would update and expand the beastiary. He would also travel to each village to meet with the village overseer and set up a deterrent plan to protect the villagers going forward. If any monsters settled in the area after he cleared out the ones currently present, Geralt would eliminate them for an additional fee.

It took hours for Geralt and Countess Rottermund to settle on terms, but both left the negotiation satisfied. Jaskier was delighted it had worked out and looked forward to spending the winter on the coast with Geralt. As they returned to their room, Jaskier chattered about his plans for the coming season, the songs he would work on, the dishes he would prepare to “keep you in good weight, Geralt!”, and how much he would enjoy spending that quiet season with Geralt again as they had years ago in Oxenfurt. He even promised to arrange for a selection of books to be brought to the cottage for Geralt to read, assuring him the library still had his record and would not send him something he had already read.

Geralt let Jaskier’s words wash over him, exhaustion creeping up as he prepared for bed. He removed the finery, folding it carefully, before flopping back onto the bed in his smalls and chemise, Jaskier joining him shortly after, blowing out the candles by the bedside.

There was nothing new in them sharing a bed – they did it all the time on the Path in much smaller beds than this – but the change Geralt felt earlier made itself known again. The atmosphere was comfortable and quiet, but there was a new weight to it. Nothing tense or heavy, but a new significance to their shared space that simply hadn’t been there before. It made Geralt feel like he wanted to bare his soul.

He turned on his side to face Jaskier, watching the dim light from the dying fire cast shadows on his still youthful face. Jaskier felt his gaze and turned to him, resting his head on a bent elbow, smiling gently. They were inches apart.

Geralt wanted to recapture the closeness he’d felt earlier, wanted to feel that same soul-deep contentment. He placed his hand, palm up, on the bed between them, offering what he dared not take. Jaskier immediately accepted, placing his hand in Geralt’s and squeezing lightly. 

“I am glad we will spend the winter together again.” Geralt said softly, still afraid to speak his thoughts aloud, but made daring by the warm, intimate environment.

“As am I,” Jaskier said, smiling gently, affection clear on his face. “I am honored to share your Path.”

That touched something deep inside Geralt, and he felt some long-held fear, some long-held resistance, give way. He didn’t know how to express what he felt in words, so he let his instincts lead, trusting that Jaskier would understand, would accept what he offered in the manner intended.

Geralt stretched forward, closing the small distance between them and placing a gentle kiss on Jaskier’s forehead, mirroring the soft, affectionate gestures Jaskier had bestowed upon him in the past. Jaskier’s eyes widened in wonder, his mouth dropping open softly. Geralt searched Jaskier’s eyes and found only steadfast affection. 

As Geralt studied him, Jaskier drew closer, resting his forehead on Geralt’s and synchronizing their breathing. He kept his eyes open despite the closeness, watching for any sign of hesitance as he gently, slowly, leaned in and pressed his lips to Geralt’s. 

The kiss was soft and affectionate. Loving without demanding, passionate without burning. It wasn’t a carnal act, but one of the deepest feeling, the sort of quiet, eternal love built up over years of trust and companionship.

Geralt felt the depth of love Jaskier conveyed with his soft kiss and felt his eyes fill with the strength of his emotions. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to, he simply closed the distance between their bodies, winding his arms around Jaskier and burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing deeply of the comforting scent of rosin and honey. Jaskier cradled him close, nuzzling at his hair and pressing soft kisses to the crown of his head. 

They didn’t say anything further, they just breathed together in their warm bed, surrounded by soft furs, and slept, content in the knowledge that they were each exactly where they should be.


	6. Epilogue: Finding Home – Winter 1254-1255

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None, really. A brief mention of food insecurity?
> 
> This is just pure softness. Horse rides! Baths! Home cooked meals! Kissing! Just straight up indulgence. Enjoy.

Jaskier had arrived at Countess Rottermund’s cottage on the coast nearly a week before Geralt, just as the first frosts of winter started to encroach in the early mornings. 

Jaskier had spent the last month teaching a special seminar at Oxenfurt for those students who hoped to make a living as a travelling bard. While traditionally most Oxenfurt graduates in the bardic arts went on to serve in noble houses or royal courts, Jaskier’s success had created an example which the more talented and daring students wished to follow. After fielding months of requests for such a class from those students, the Dean of the Bardic Arts at Oxenfurt had relented, sending word to Jaskier and requesting he come teach a special seminar before year’s end. Jaskier had already notified the Dean that he would not be available to teach for the winter term, having promised to accompany Geralt to the coast, and the Dean knew that he needed to capitalize on the opportunity to catch Jaskier before he was otherwise engaged.

When the letter arrived, Jaskier had been delighted. It was a great honor to be specifically requested by the Dean for a special seminar, especially one restricted only to students of the highest level. Fortunately, notice arrived when Geralt and Jaskier were just north of Vizima, only a few days’ ride from Oxenfurt. Geralt had encouraged Jaskier to go, telling him that they would have ample time together over the winter. And so, with excitement to teach warring with his reluctance to leave his dearest friend – who was slowly, _slowly_ becoming something more – Jaskier had left for Oxenfurt and Geralt had turned for Cidaris and a contract on a Royal Wyvern. 

Jaskier had spent a glorious month teaching his special seminar. Restricted to only the most talented in the class itself, Jaskier had allowed other students and teachers to audit if they wished, and his lectures had filled the largest hall in Oxenfurt every day, with people jostling for position and lining up hours before to ensure a seat near the front. 

Toward the end of the month-long seminar, Jaskier had written to Countess Rottermund to request certain provisions be delivered to the cottage. He knew he would likely arrive before Geralt, having received word Geralt planned to divert to Kimbe to clear a nest of drowners before heading north to Countess Rottermund’s holding, and he wanted to be sure everything was ready for Geralt’s arrival.

* * *

Geralt hurried Roach on the road north, squinting through the driving snow, his pupils narrowed to vertical slits against the bright glare off the ocean to his left. The nest of drowners in Kimbe two days past had turned out to be both drowners and a water hag, a nasty combination at the best of times. Geralt had ended up soaked, frozen, and exhausted, but luckily unharmed except for superficial cuts and bruises that were already almost healed.

Winter came on hard and fast as Geralt turned had north out of Kimbe, frost blanketing the world, catching the light and making the swampland sparkle. Geralt’s breath came out in clouds of steam as he rode, cold wind making his normally pale cheeks flush red. He could only hope that Countess Rottermund had kept her word and stocked the cottage properly for winter. This late in the season, they would have little chance to build up stores of their own before the deep snows.

Just as the sun started to set, Geralt spied a large cottage in the distance, set on a bluff overlooking the ocean, smoke curling from its chimney and warm light shining through the large front windows. It was the only structure in sight and it was in the rough middle of Countess Rottermund’s territory. Geralt hoped it was the right cottage and that knocking on the door would bring Jaskier and not an outraged settler. 

Geralt scratched Roach’s withers in apology for the conditions and urged her back into a canter. She tossed her head, catching at the bit to show her displeasure at the long, cold ride, but obeyed, settling into a ground covering stride that brought them swiftly to the low gate in the fence surrounding the cottage’s front garden. Geralt could see a small stable behind the cottage, but tied Roach to the fence for now so he could make sure they were in the right place. 

As he started up the little garden path, boots crunching on the crushed sea shells used to line it, he saw the curtains over the window twitch before the door banged open, Jaskier rushing out into the snow to greet him with a strong embrace. 

“Geralt! You made it!” Jaskier said, beaming. “I was worried about you with the weather.”

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck and drawing in a deep breath of his comforting scent before drawing back.   
  


“I’m going to put Roach up.” He said, turning back toward the gate. Jaskier followed.

“I’ll show you where I put everything.” He said. “Countess Rottermund left a new, thick blanket for Roach too.”

Geralt smiled softly, happy to be reunited with Jaskier. They led Roach over to the small stable behind the cottage. There was a paddock attached to one side of it, with a door leading out from a large, box stall. Jaskier’s grey gelding, Pegasus, was already stabled in the stall next to the large box stalland he whickered in greeting. Pegasus had been a gift from Countess Rottermund, given to Jaskier before they left her townhouse the prior spring. He was a sturdy horse of calm temperament and having two horses had made their travels the past year much easier, though Geralt still teased Jaskier over his choice of name for the big grey.

Geralt gave Pegasus’s neck a firm stroke as he led Roach by, settling her into the large stall. Jaskier had already bedded it down with thick straw and filled the buckets with clear water and sweet-smelling oats. Roach let out a sigh as Geralt removed her tack and saddlebags, immediately starting in on the oats. Jaskier leaned over the stall door as Geralt brushed Roach down, carefully checking her over for any cuts and picking out her hooves. When Geralt was satisfied, Jaskier handed him the blanket Countess Rottermund had left for Roach. Though her winter coat was thick and warm, the plush, wool blanket would keep her more comfortable on cold nights, especially when she was still damp from the snow. 

With Roach settled in next to Pegasus, Geralt slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and followed Jaskier up into the cottage.

* * *

As Geralt followed Jaskier through the door into the warm cottage, he looked around, taking in the large hearth, the comfortable lounges surrounding it, and the thick, quality wood planks used to build the dwelling. There was a small kitchen set next to the hearth and a door on the other side of the hearth opened into a bedchamber, into which Jaskier immediately led Geralt. The bedchamber was modestly sized but well appointed, a large, four-poster bed taking up much of the space. As with the bed they shared at Countess Rottermund’s townhouse, it was covered in a selection of thick furs.

Jaskier indicted the hook where Geralt could hang his saddle bags and opened up the dresser set along the opposite wall from the bed. He rustled around a moment before pulling out a set of clothes and placing them on the bed. 

“I ordered you some new winter things.” Jaskier said, indicating the pile. “A few new, linen shirts, a wool tunic, and a heavy surcoat.” 

Geralt went to inspect the clothes, shaking each piece out of its fold and running his fingers over the fabric. “These can’t have come cheap.” Geralt said, frowning slightly, placing the clothes back on the bed. “You didn’t need to do this.”

Jaskier shook his head, a note of fond exasperation in his smile. “No, I didn’t, but I wanted to buy you something new and warm. I know you don’t have the chance to wear things like this often, given they won’t fit under your armor or hold up to fighting, but most of the work this winter will be indoors editing the beastiary.” 

Jaskier picked up the pile and placed it back in Geralt’s hands. “You deserve to be comfortable. Now, go wash off and change.” He indicated the door at the back of the bedroom, leading to a small bathing chamber. “The bath is in there. I’ll get dinner ready while you bathe.” Jaskier placed a warm hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, before heading back to the kitchen.

Geralt felt the now familiar warmth of Jaskier’s company sink back into him, soothing the ache of the cold and the separation. He unlaced his boots, leaving them by the door, and padded into the bathroom. A large, wooden tub sat in the center of the room and a small hearth was on the far wall. A pump handle for water was beside the hearth and a large cauldron pot hung over the wood piled in the hearth, ready to heat water for the bath. A bucket to transfer the water from the cauldron to the tub hung on a hook beside it. 

Geralt got to work pumping water into the cauldron. It ran fresh and clear. When the cauldron was partly filled, Geralt cast a quick _igni_ on the prepared logs before finishing pumping the water. Then he cast another controlled blast of _igni_ around the sides of the copper cauldron to help speed the heating process. 

As the water warmed, Geralt stripped off his wet, travel stained clothes. He wiped down his armor with a towel, drying it, and piled it in the corner to be cleaned later. His wet clothes he left in a pile by the door, ready to add to the morning’s wash. By the time he finished, steam was rising off the water in the cauldron. Geralt carefully transferred the hot water from the cauldron to the tub before refilling the cauldron in case Jaskier wanted a bath later, leaving it to heat over the banked fire.

Tasks complete, Geralt sank into the scalding water up to his chin, heaving out a sigh as cold and tension melted away. He didn’t know how long he sat there, mind drifting, before Jaskier came into the bathing chamber.

“How’s the tub?” Jaskier asked, glad to see his dear one so relaxed.

“Hmm.” Geralt turned a small smile on Jaskier, cheeks flushed from the heat.

“That good, is it?” Jaskier said, eyes crinkling. He reached for a bar of soap and a cloth. “Want some help with your hair?”

“You don’t have to -” Geralt started, quelled when Jaskier lifted an unimpressed eyebrow at him. He started again, reminded Jaskier wanted to care for him and that he was allowed to accept that care. “If you’re offering, then yes, please.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Jaskier moved to kneel behind Geralt, snagging a small bowl from the pile in the corner to use as a rinse basin. “Tilt your head back, please.” He directed, using the bowl to pour water over Geralt’s hair once he complied. Jaskier used the cloth to lather the oil soap before working the suds gently through Geralt’s hair. He gently loosened the knots and mats caused by weeks without a proper bath, finger combing the long, white locks until they were smooth. Geralt closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, feeling weeks of tension leave him as a result of the gentle massage. He sighed in pure contentment, leaned back and let Jaskier take care of him.

When Jaskier was satisfied Geralt’s hair was clean and free of knots, he filled the bucket from the steaming cauldron, glad Geralt had prepared more hot water, and used that clean water to fill his rinse bowl, pouring bowl after bowl of water over Geralt’s head until the water ran clear of soap. Once it did, he picked up a small bottle of hair oil, lightly scented with peppermint, and worked it through Geralt’s clean hair until it gleamed in the low firelight. Geralt was almost asleep from the slow, calming work, completely trusting Jaskier to watch over him.

Jaskier gently nudged Geralt to sit forward, which he did without entirely coming back to the present moment, and lathered up the cloth again to wash Geralt’s back. Once Geralt was sufficiently soaped up, Jaskier followed with his hands, rubbing deep, long strokes into tense muscles, working the knots until they loosened. Geralt drew his knees up to his chest and rested his head upon them, eyes closed, soft, slow breaths showing how close to sleep he was as he enjoyed Jaskier’s ministrations.

Jaskier’s heart warmed at the trust shown by Geralt’s totally relaxed state. Reluctant to rouse him, Jaskier continued on to wash Geralt’s arms and legs, dipping his hands below the water when needed. That done, he gently moved Geralt to sit back again, guiding his head to rest on the edge of the tub. Jaskier continued his work on Geralt’s chest, scrubbing him gently clean and working muscle knots out of the front of his shoulders, leaving only the most intimate areas unattended. The time might come for that, but Jaskier was not going to push and risk violating Geralt’s trust.

Bathing complete, Jaskier gently stoked a hand down Geralt’s face, speaking only when he could see a sliver of golden iris appear through Geralt’s eyelids to focus on him. “I hate to disturb you, my dear, but dinner is ready, so please finish up in here. As soon as you’ve eaten, you can rest. I’ll show you the rest of the property tomorrow.”

“Hm.” Geralt nodded, taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so loose, so well cared for. Taking the cloth from Jaskier as he left, Geralt finished his bath and dried off, changing into the new clothes Jaskier had purchased. As he expected, the clothes were of the finest quality, thick, soft, and warm. Geralt had never felt anything like them and he vowed to treasure this gift from his dearest friend.

Leaving the water in the tub for now, as he was uncertain where it should be dumped, Geralt headed into the main room, taking a seat at the small, wooden table by the hearth. Jaskier smiled and set a large bowl of steaming, beef stew in front of him, a chunk of fresh, crusty bread sitting on top. He set a similar bowl for himself, sitting down across from Geralt as they ate. Geralt hummed his appreciation for the warm, thick stew. He’d been living off jerky and foraged berries the past couple weeks, so a real meal was a welcome change. 

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Geralt asked as he got close to the bottom of the bowl. It wasn’t as if Jaskier cooked badly while they were on the Path, just that the tools and options were limited, leaving them to usually subsist on spit roasted meat or watery stews.

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “It’s a long story.” Geralt sat, watching and waiting, until Jaskier continued. “I didn’t know anything about housekeeping when I got to Oxenfurt. Not even how to boil water!”

“Makes sense, given you grew up in a noble house.” 

Jaskier waved that off. “True, but there was no excuse to remain ignorant.” Geralt nodded approvingly. “When I decided to be a travelling bard, I knew I couldn’t always rely on finding an inn or a tavern every night, so I asked the kitchen maids to help me learn the basics.” Jaskier shook his head ruefully at the memory. “I was hopeless at first, but eventually I stopped burning everything, including myself, and they were able to teach me some good, basic recipes: beef stew, country bread, potage, barley porridge, vegetable stew, and the like. We don’t exactly have a lot of options at our camp sites, but I wanted to feed you properly now that we have a proper kitchen.”

“It’s very good.” Geralt said, using the last of his bread to mop up the remaining stew. “I haven’t eaten this well in a long time.” 

Jaskier beamed. “Well, good. We have plenty of stores from Countess Rottermund – even a selection of salted and smoked meats! – so we’ll eat well this season.” 

Jaskier peered into Geralt’s empty bowl. “Would you like some more?”

Geralt hesitated. He was still hungry, but he was used to the sensation given he was rarely able to eat until satiated. He didn’t want to overeat and waste the food stores. 

Jaskier saw Geralt’s hesitation and sensed its cause. “Go ahead, have some more. We have more in storage than we could reasonably eat in six months, there’s no need to ration.” He picked up Geralt’s bowl and turned to fill it with another generous helping, placing it back down in front of Geralt before tearing off another hunk of the thick loaf and adding that to the top of the bowl. “Eat up!”

Geralt dug in, savoring the tender beef and thick-cut vegetables, mopping it all up with the fresh bread. When he cleaned his bowl again, he sat back and enjoyed the rare feeling of being comfortably full. He looked up at the pot of stew still hanging over the fire. Undoubtably, they would finish it for breakfast. Food security was a rare occurrence for him, though travelling with Jaskier had made it much more common, and he planned to take full advantage of the offered abundance.

“I’ve never been able to eat as much as I want.” Geralt said quietly to the table, wanting to share with Jaskier as Jaskier had shared with him. “Even at Kaer Morhen, there were times we couldn’t hunt enough for everyone.”

Jaskier blinked, surprised, but realized he was wrong to be surprised almost immediately. He knew Geralt had frequent lean periods, he saw the weight loss that resulted every winter they were apart, it made sense he was no stranger to food insecurity. He also knew any hint of pity would make Geralt shut down. Jaskier was amazed he’d offered this tidbit voluntarily and did not want to discourage future sharing by showing how much that small insight horrified him. He couldn’t change Geralt’s past, but he could do everything in his power to make his present and future brighter.

“Well then, we’ll have to make sure you eat your fill every day while we’re here!” Jaskier said, purposefully keeping his tone light.

Geralt smiled at him, meeting his eyes, and Jaskier knew he’d made the right choice.

* * *

The next morning, after a long sleep with Geralt curled against him under the soft furs, Jaskier showed Geralt around the property. They took the horses out after breakfast, the previous night’s storm having left a blanket of fresh, powdery snow on the sea cliffs surrounding the cottage, frost sparkling in the pale, winter sun. Pegasus and Roach walked quietly side by side, breaths puffing out in warm clouds, hooves leaving a clear trail behind them. The beginning of winter always left a hush over the Continent as all its residents, human and otherwise, hunkered down for the long cold to come.

Jaskier guided Geralt out to the edge of the sea cliffs, pointing out the curls of smoke rising from the seaside villages to their north and south, all Countess Rottermund’s holding as far as even Geralt’s eyes could see. The winter ocean crashed on the cliffs below, occasionally sending a spray of sea water up into the air, catching the breeze and flashing in the sun before dissipating. Sea gulls screamed overhead and large pelicans patrolled the waves, diving down to catch fish in their large beaks. 

As they stood on the far edge of the cove, gazing northward toward the nearest village, Jaskier pointed out the sea wall the villagers had just finished constructing.

“See there? They took your recommendation to build a harbor to allow them a safe place to store their boats, to fish, and to forage for shellfish.”

Geralt hummed, pleased. “Good, a small, shallow area is easier to keep clear of monster nests.”

“The overseer of that village, and the one from the next one up the coast, will be down next week, or so I hear from the Countess.” Jaskier said, turning to Geralt. “And her messenger already delivered the beastiary with the vittals.” Jaskier laughed at Geralt’s eager expression. “Yes, I’ll show you as soon as we get home.”

“Home?” Geralt asked, brows furrowing slightly.

“Aye, home.” Jaskier said firmly. “We’ll be in that cottage all winter, just the two of us, and it’s appointed to our liking. So, it’s home.”

Geralt frowned. He’d never thought to call somewhere home before. He knew he must have had a home once, back before his mother left him for Vesemir on the side of the road, and Kaer Morhen was a home of sorts, or at least as close to a home as he could remember having. Still, with all the brutality he experienced there, he hesitated to give it that moniker. He studied Jaskier, who held his gaze patiently, somehow understanding Geralt’s turmoil over that simple word. Jaskier was safety, warmth, and care. He was consistent, affectionate, and tolerant of Geralt’s peculiar needs. No, not tolerant, that wasn’t strong enough. Geralt wasn’t sure of the word, but perhaps something like indulgent would do, or something as simple, as profound, as _understanding_. 

Geralt felt that peculiar warmth in his chest that only Jaskier could inspire. He offered Jaskier a small, warm smile. “Yes, I think you’re right. If you’re there, then it’s home.”

Geralt was almost alarmed as Jaskier’s eyes filled with tears, but the beaming smile that following allayed his concerns. “Aye, I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

With that, they turned the horses back, heading for home.

* * *

The winter passed slowly, calm days merging into quiet nights, as Geralt worked his way through the beastiary, updating, correcting, and redacting as necessary, while Jaskier composed new ballads inspired by their adventures on the Path that past autumn. 

Every fortnight, one or two of the village overseers would come visit, bringing a rough map of their village and reviewing options with Geralt to improve its defenses against monsters. As weather allowed, the overseers would implement Geralt’s plans, sending word for Geralt to inspect the work once it was complete, or as close to complete as possible while the snows still fell. Sometimes, Jaskier would accompany Geralt on these outings, other times, he stayed home, composing, or cooking, or simply reading by the warm fire. 

As the months passed, Geralt felt himself grow accustomed to the comfort and calm. Unlike years past, he no longer felt a sense of dread when giving into the enjoyment of these fleeting, precious moments. He knew his time with Jaskier was limited, by a human lifespan if by nothing else, and Jaskier had shown him the value in taking time to appreciate the good, soft things in life. Even more importantly for Geralt, Jaskier had shown him that _he_ was worthy of such valuable things, that _he_ could be soft and quiet, and that Jaskier would watch over him when he was vulnerable. 

One evening, warm enough that the snow still dripped off the roof even after the sun had set, Geralt set down his quill, carefully capped the ink, and set the beastiary aside. He was almost finished with the revisions of the large tome, and he hoped that Countess Rottermund would share the information as widely as possible. 

He turned to study Jaskier where he sat by the fire, his own quill in hand as he composed lyrics for a new ballad, the firelight glinting off his hair and highlighting his high cheekbones. Geralt thought back on the long months they had spent here, quietly going through the rhythms of a normal life, the type of life Geralt had never before experienced. Even the winter they had spent together in Oxenfurt, though similarly comfortable, had been catered by others on the university staff for their food and the care of their chambers. Here, they alone managed their affairs, working together to prepare food and maintain the house. It was so normal, so _domestic_ , and yet Geralt never felt stifled. He knew, come spring, he would return to the Path, but something in him, something stiff and afraid, had finally eased, allowing him to simply be in the moment with Jaskier, to accept his affection and offer his own, confident Jaskier would not spurn him.

As Geralt studied him, Jaskier eventually looked up, having felt the weight of his gaze. Seeing the soft expression, the warmth burning in those amber eyes, Jaskier held out a hand, offering Geralt to come closer. Blinking out of his contemplation, Geralt rose, grasping Jaskier’s hand and moving to sit at his feet, leaning against Jaskier’s legs and the base of the lounger. He pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles, looking up at him before settling his head to rest on Jaskier’s thighs. 

Jaskier’s heart melted, hand carding gently through Geralt’s soft, white hair, the subtle scent of peppermint wafting toward him. Geralt breathed in deeply, scenting at Jaskier from where he rested, filling himself with Jaskier’s familiar rosin and honey scent. Soothed, he relaxed completely, closing his eyes and resting against Jaskier almost bonelessly. He still couldn’t bring himself to ask for affection, for physical closeness. When he tried the words got caught in his throat, dying before he could make a sound. But he had learned to accept what Jaskier offered and to offer his own affection through his actions, certain Jaskier would redirect him if he ever did anything contrary to Jaskier’s wishes. 

They sat by the fire, Geralt’s warm weight against Jaskier’s legs, Jaskier’s strong hand in Geralt’s hair, watching the fire burn down. As it turned to embers, Jaskier drew in a breath, releasing it in a content sigh. He scratched lightly at Geralt’s head to bring him out of his near trance. Geralt huffed at the disturbance, nuzzling into Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier breathed out a soft laugh, gently tightening his hold on Geralt’s hair. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” When Geralt protested by burrowing even closer, Jaskier laughed outright. “Go on, I’ll bank the fire and join you.”

With a grumble about not wanting to leave his soft, warm spot, Geralt pushed himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head as he wandered toward the bedchamber. As he undressed for bed, Geralt could hear Jaskier banking the fire and puttering around checking the door was latched and all candles were out. For the first time in their stay, Geralt left his shirt off for bed, as was his preference when sleeping alone. Something about that night made him feel it might be all right. Geralt curled up under the furs, drawing them back on Jaskier’s side, ready for him when he arrived. 

Having settled the cottage for the evening, Jaskier came into the bedchamber, latching the door behind himself. He would never tire of the sight of Geralt comfortably ensconced in their bed, waiting for Jaskier to join him. Jaskier noticed that Geralt had left off his shirt for the night, a first in all their years of sharing rooms and beds. Given their increasing closeness, Jaskier felt safe to assume the gesture was Geralt’s way of indicating he was comfortable with greater intimacy. Still, he would tread carefully, this was too important to rush. 

“Mind if I leave my shirt off as well?” Jaskier asked.

“Of course not.” Geralt said, a faint flush high on his cheeks betraying his aloof tone.

Jaskier nodded, pulling his shirt off and hanging it over the clothing rack before climbing into bed. He turned on his side, facing Geralt. “Not that I mind, but what brought this about?” He asked. He could guess, but he didn’t want to risk a miscommunication.

Geralt chewed his lip slightly before catching himself, pressing his lips together to still the anxious tell. He wasn’t sure how to express the trust he felt, the lack of shame, to bare his body, his scars, before Jaskier. Even though they had shared baths, there was something different, something intimate, about removing his shirt to share a bed. He wanted that intimacy, but he didn’t know how to ask for it. He hoped _showing_ Jaskier what he wanted would be enough to make up for his appalling inability to properly express himself with words.

Jaskier waited, knowing Geralt needed time to compose his answers on matters this sensitive, this close to the feelings the world told him he wasn’t supposed to have.

“It felt right.” Geralt finally said. “I want to share everything I am with you. To share not just a friendship, but a life.” Geralt steeled himself to meet Jaskier’s gaze, confident enough in him to express that deepest wish of his heart, but still feeling the bitter pull of fear, of the voice in the back of his head whispering _you’re not worthy_.

Jaskier’s smile bloomed across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making them shine. “I share your desire, my dearest one.” He said, placing a warm hand on Geralt’s bare chest. “I wish to experience every intimacy with you, every aspect of your life, of _our_ life.” He ran his hand down Geralt’s chest and back up his side, coming to rest against his stubbled cheek. 

Geralt’s heart overflowed with the strength, the depth of the love he felt in that moment. He surged forward, capturing Jaskier’s mouth and pouring all his love, his trust, and his soul-deep affection into the kiss, winding his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair. He pulled back, resting his forehead on Jaskier’s as they breathed together. Geralt stroked his right hand down from Jaskier’s hair, over his neck and shoulder, coming to rest in the soft divot above his hip. Jaskier kept his one hand softly on Geralt’s cheek, stroking gently with his thumb, while the other traced a soft pattern on Geralt’s chest, dancing over the scars.

This time, Jaskier moved forward, drawing Geralt into a deep kiss, winding his arms around Geralt’s chest and drawing him close. Geralt responded with equal passion, a breathy noise in the back of his throat escaping as he clasped Jaskier to him, throwing a leg over Jaskier’s as he sank into the embrace.

Geralt couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours, time both speeding by and slowing down as they kissed, twined around each other so it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Geralt had never felt such passion, such profound love, and it almost overwhelmed him. He pulled back, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing deeply as he tried to draw Jaskier even closer. He felt himself shaking, heart racing as tremors coursed through him from the strength of his emotions. 

He had experienced many sexual encounters in his long life, mostly from those willing to take his coin, but nothing had rocked him to his core like the simple embrace, the simple, loving kiss he shared with Jaskier. He knew the time for more would time, that it would be another life-altering experience, and felt no loss in realizing more would not come today. His body was more than ready, but his mind, his heart, were overwhelmed by the profound feelings, the previously unexperienced depth of intimacy offered by this remarkable man. Geralt felt Jaskier press soothing, affectionate kisses to the crown of his head, felt his strong, lean arms against his back, drawing him close. 

Geralt nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck, breathed a deep sigh, and settled into Jaskier’s embrace. 

He was home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might one day make this a series, bringing our emotionally communicative boys into future canon to see what shakes out. But, for now, this is the end of the story. Thank you for the comments, the bookmarks, the kudos, and the hits. You've made writing this a tremendous pleasure <3
> 
> Come visit me on Tumblr for lots more softness (asks welcome) [@kirk-spock-in-the-impala ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kirk-spock-in-the-impala)


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